^irarniug  Enb  f^abor. 

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CI.ASS.  BOOK.  VOLUINTK. 

32.A  ■R  S9•n^  ?>, 

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» remrnw  tiS™4'i“„™5,*i  “ ™P“""We  for 


NOV  I 

i2--i2.->10 

DEC  1 7 Bi 


1990 


LI6I— 0-1096 


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MISCELLANEA 


A COLLECTION  OF  THE  MINOR  WRITINGS 


OF 


JOHN  RUSKIN. 


VOL.  II. 


^FICTIOJSr-FAIK  AND  FOUL. 

)VIN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS:  STUD- 
IES OF  MOUNTAIN  FOBM. 

INAUOUBAL  ADDRESS  AT 
THE  CAMBRIDOE  SCHOOL 
OF  ART. 

{,t?CELI  EN ARRANT  : STUDIES 
OF  CLOUD  FORM, 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  CRYS 
TAL  PALACE  - ITS  RELA- 
TIONS TO  THE  PROSPECTS 
OF  ART. 

THE  .KING  OF  THE  GOLDEN 

NOTES  ON  THE  CONSTRUC- 
TION OF  SHEEP-FOLDS  OR 
VISIBLE  CHURCHES. 

C5  o V ”V"\  \ e. 


NEW  YORK  AND  SAINT  PAUL; 

D.  D.  MERRILL  COMPANY. 


■m' 


? 


i 


FICTION 


FAIE  AND  FODL 


JOHN  RUSKIN, 

HONORARY  STUDENT  OF  CHRISTCHURCH,  AND  SLADE  PROFESSOR  OF  FINE  ART. 


NEW  YORK  AND  SAINT  PAUL; 

D.  D.  MERRILL  COMPANY. 


I 


yv^ 

V,^ 


FICTION-FAm  AND  FOUL. 


On  the  first  mild — or,  at  least,  the  first  bright — day  of 
March,  in  this  year,  I walked  through  what  was  once  a country 
lane,  between  the  hostelry  of  the  Half-moon  at  the  bottom  of 
Herne  Hill,  and  the  secluded  College  of  Dulwich. 

In  my  young  days,  Croxsted  Lane  was  a green  bye-road  trav- 
ersable for  some  distance  by  carts;  but  rarely  so  traversed, 
and,  for  the  most  part,  little  else  than  a narrow  strip  of  un- 
tilled field,  separated  by  blackberry  hedges  from  the  better 
cared-for  meadows  on  each  side  of  it : growing  more  weeds, 
therefore,  than  they,  and  perhaps  in  spring  a primrose  or  two 
— white  archangel — daisies  plenty,  and  purple  thistles  in  au- 
tumn. A slender  rivulet,  boasting  little  of  its  brightness,  for 
there  are  no  springs  at  Dulwich,  yet  fed  purely  enough  by  the 
rain  and.  morning  dew,  here  trickled— there  loitered — through 
the  long  grass  beneath  the  hedges,  and  expanded  itself,  where 
it  might,  into  moderately  clear  and  deep  pools,  in  which,  under 
their  veils  of  duck-weed,  a fresh-water  shell  or  two,  sundry  cu- 
rious little  skipping  shrimps,  any  quantity  of  tadpoles  in  their 
time,  and  even  sometimes  a tittlebat,  offered  themselves  to  my 
boyhood’s  pleased,  and  not  inaccurate,  observation.  There,  my 
mother  and  I used  to  gather  the  first  buds  of  the  hawthorn ; 
and  there,  in  after  years,  I used  to  walk  in  the  summer  shad- 
ows, as  in  a place  wilder  and  sweeter  than  our  garden,  to  think 
over  any  passage  I w^anted  to  make  better  than  usual  in  J/od- 
ern  Painters, 

So,  as  aforesaid,  on  the  first  kindly  day  of  this  year,  being 
thoughtful  more  than  usual  of  those  old  times,  I went  to  look 
again  at  the  place. 

1 


2 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


Often,  botli  in  those  days,  and  since,  I have  put  myself  hard 
to  it,  vainly,  to  find  words  wherewith  to  tell  of  beautiful 
things  : but  beauty  has  been  in  the  world  since  the  world  was 
made,  and  human  language  can  make  a shift,  somehow,  to  give 
account  of  it,  whereas  the  peculiar  forces  of  devastation  in- 
duced by  modern  city  life  have  only  entered  the  world  lately  ; 
and  no  existing  terms  of  language  known  to  me  are  enough 
to  describe  the  forms  of  filth,  and  modes  of  ruin,  that  varied 
themselves  along  the  course  of  Croxsted  Lane.  The  fields  on 
each  side  of  it  are  now  mostly  dug  up  for  building,  or  cut 
through  into  gaunt  corners  and  nooks  of  blind  ground  by  the 
wild  crossings  and  concurrencies  of  three  railroads.  Half  a 
dozen  handfuls  of  new  cottages,  with  Doric  doors,  are  dropped 
about  here  and  there  among  the  gashed  ground  : the  lane  it- 
self, now  entirely  grassless,  is  a deep-rutted,  heavy-hillocked 
cart-road,  diverging  gatelessly  into  various  brick-fields  or 
pieces  of  waste ; and  bordered  on  each  side  by  heaps  of — 
Hades  only  knows  what ! — mixed  dust  of  every  unclean  thing 
that  can  crumble  in  drought,  and  mildew  of  every  unclean 
thing  that  can  rot  or  rust  in  damp  : ashes  and  rags,  beer  bottles 
and  old  shoes,  battered  pans,  smashed  crockery,  shreds  of 
nameless  clothes,  door-sweepings,  fioor-sweepings,  kitchen  gar- 
bage, back-garden  sewage,  old  iron,  rotten  timber  jagged  with 
out-torn  nails,  cigar-ends,  pipe-bowls,  cinders,  bones,  and  ord- 
ure, indescribable ; and,  variously  kneaded  into,  sticking  to,  or 
fiuttering  foully  here  and  there  over  all  these, — remnants 
broadcast,  of  every  manner  of  newspaper,  advertisement  or 
big-lettered  bill,  festering  and  flaunting  out  their  last  publicity 
in  the  pits  of  stinking  dust  and  mortal  slime. 

The  lane  ends  now  where  its  prettiest  windings  once  began  ; 
being  cut  off  by  a cross-road  leading  out  of  Dulwich  to  a minor 
railway  station  : and  on  the  other  side  of  this  road,  what  was 
of  old  the  daintiest  intricacy  of  its  solitude  is  changed  into  a 
straight,  and  evenly  macadamised  carriage  drive,  between  new 
houses  of  extreme  respectability,  with  good  attached  gardens 
and  offices — most  of  these  tenements  being  larger — all  more 
pretentious,  and  many,  I imagine,  held  at  greatly  higher  rent 


nCTIOJSr — FAIR  AKD  FOUL. 


8 


than  my  father’s,  tenanted  for  twenty  years  at  Heme  Hill. 
And  it  became  matter  of  curious  meditation  to  me  what  must 
here  become  of  children  resembling  my  poor  little  dreamy 
quondam  self  in  temper,  and  thus  brought  up  at  the  same  dis- 
tance from  London,  and  in  the  same  or  better  circumstances 
of  worldly  fortune  ; but  with  only  Croxsted  Lane  in  its  present 
condition  for  their  country  walk.  The  trimly  kept  road  before 
their  doors,  such  as  one  used  to  see  in  the  fashionable  suburbs 
of  Cheltenham  or  Leamington,  presents  nothing  to  their  study 
but  gravel,  and  gas-lamp  posts  ; the  modern  addition  of  a ver- 
milion letter-pillar  contributing  indeed  to  the  splendour,  but 
scarcely  to  the  interest  of  the  scene  ; and  a child  of  any  sense 
or  fancy  would  hastily  contrive  escape  from  such  a barren 
desert  of  politeness,  and  betake  itself  to  investigation,  such  as 
might  be  feasible,  of  the  natural  history  of  Croxsted  Lane. 

But,  for  its  sense  or  fancy,  what  food,  or  stimulus,  can  it 
find,  in  that  foul  causeway  of  its  youthful  pilgrimage?  What 
would  have  happened  to  myself,  so  directed,  I cannot  clearly 
imagine.  Possibly,  I might  have  got  interested  in  the  old 
iron  and  wood-shavings;  and  become  an  engineer  or  a carpen- 
ter : but  for  the  children  of  to-day,  accustomed  from  the  in- 
stant they  are  out  of  their  cradles,  to  the  sight  of  this  infinite 
nastiness,  prevailing  as  a fixed  condition  of  the  universe,  over 
the  face  of  nature,  and  accompanying  all  the  operations  of  in- 
dustrious man,  what  is  to  be  the  scholastic  issue  ? unless,  in- 
deed, the  thrill  of  scientific  vanity  in  the  primary  analysis  of 
some  unheard-of  process  of  corruption — or  the  reward  of  mi- 
croscopic research  in  the  sight  of  worms  with  more  legs,  and 
acari  of  more  curious  generation  than  ever  vivified  the  more 
simply  smelling  plasma  of  antiquity. 

One  result  of  such  elementary  education  is,  however,  already 
certain  ; namely,  that  the  pleasure  which  we  may  conceive 
taken  by  the  children  of  the  coming  time,  in  the  analysis  of 
physical  corruption,  guides,  into  fields  inore  dangerous  and 
desolate,  the  expatiation  of  imaginative  literature  : and  that 
the  reactions  of  moral  disease  upon  itself,  and  the  conditions  of 
languidly  monstrous  character  developed  in  an  atmosphere  of 


4 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


low  vitality,  have  become  the  most  valued  material  of  modern 
fiction,  and  the  most  eagerly  discussed  texts  of  modern  phi- 
losophy. 

The  many  concurrent  reasons  for  this  mischief  may,  1 be- 
lieve, be  massed  under  a few  general  heads. 

I.  There  is  first  the  hot  fermentation  and  unwholesome  se- 
crecy of  the  population  crowded  into  large  cities,  each  mote 
in  the  misery  lighter,  as  an  individual  soul,  than  a dead  leaf, 
but  becoming  oppressive  and  infectious  each  to  his  neighbour, 
in  the  smoking  mass  of  decay.  The  resulting  modes  of  men- 
tal ruin  and  distress  are  continually  new ; and  in  a certain 
sense,  worth  study  in  their  monstrosity  : they  have  accordingly 
developed  a corresponding  science  of  fiction,  concerned  mainly 
with  the  description  ol  such  forms  of  disease,  like  the  botany 
of  leaf -lichens. 

In  De  Balzac’s  story  of  Father  Goriot^  a grocer  makes  a 
large  fortune,  of  which  he  spends  on  himself  as  much  as  may 
keep  him  alive ; and  on  his  two  daughters,  all  that  can  pro- 
mote their  pleasures  or  their  pride.  He  marries  them  to  men 
of  rank,  supplies  their  secret  expenses,  and  provides  for  his 
favourite  a separate  and  clandestine  establishment  \vith  her 
lover.  On  his  deathbed,  he  sends  for  this  favourite  daughter, 
who  wishes  to  come,  and  hesitates  for  a quarter  of  an  hour  be- 
tween doing  so,  and  going  to  a ball  at  which  it  has  been  for 
the  last  month  her  chief  ambition  to  be  seen.  She  finally  goes 
to  the  ball. 

This  story  is,  of  course,  one  of  which  the  violent  contrasts 
and  spectral  catastrophe  could  only  take  place,  or  be  conceived, 
in  a large  city.  A village  grocer  cannot  make  a large  fortune, 
cannot  marry  his  daughters  to  titled  squires,  and  cannot  die 
without  having  his  children  brought  to  him,  if  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, by  fear  of  village  gossip,  if  for  no  better  cause. 

II.  But  a much  more  profound  feeling  than  this  mere  cu- 
riosity of  science  in  morbid  phenomena  is  concerned  in  the 
production  of  the  carefullest  forms  of  modern  fiction.  The 
disgrace  and  grief  resulting  from  the  mere  trampling  pressure 
and  electric  friction  of  town  life,  become  to  the  sufferers  pecu- 


FICTIOi^^ — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


5 


Harly  mysterious  in  their  undeservedness,  and  frightful  in  their 
inevitahleness.  The  power  of  all  surroundings  over  them  for 
evil ; the  incapacity  of  their  own  minds  to  refuse  the  pollu- 
tion, and  of  their  own  wills  to  oppose  the  weight,  of  the  stagger- 
ing mass  that  chokes  and  crushes  them  into  perdition,  brings 
every  law  of  healthy  existence  into  question  with  them,  and 
every  alleged  method  of  help  and  hope  into  doubt.  Indigna- 
tion, without  any  calming  faith  in  justice,  and  self-contempt 
without  any  curative  self-reproach,  dull  the  intelligence,  and 
degrade  the  conscience,  into  sullen  incredulity  of  all  sunshine 
outside  the  dunghill,  or  breeze  beyond  the  wafting  of  its  im- 
purity ; and  at  last  a philosophy  develops  itself,  partly  satiric, 
partly  consolatory,  concerned  only  with  the  regenerative  vig- 
our of  manure,  and  the  necessary  obscurities  of  fimetic  Provi- 
dence; showing  how  everybody’s  fault  is  somebody  else’s,  how 
infection  has  no  law,  digestion  no  will,  and  profitable  dirt  no 
dishonour. 

And  thus  an  elaborate  and  ingenious  scholasticism,  in  what 
may  be  called  the  Divinity  of  Decomposition,  has  established 
itself  in  connection  with  the  more  recent  forms  of  romance, 
giving  them  at  once  a complacent  tone  of  clerical  dignity,  and 
an  agreeable  dash  of  heretical  impudence;  while  the  incul- 
cated doctrine  has  the  double  advantage  of  needing  no  labori- 
ous scholarship  for  its  foundation,  and  no  painful  self-denial 
for  its  practice. 

III.  The  monotony  of  life  in  the  central  streets  of  any  great 
modern  city,  but  especially  in  those  of  London,  where  every 
emotion  intended  to  be  derived  by  men  from  the  sight  of 
nature,  .or  the  sense  of  art,  is  forbidden  for  ever,  leaves  the 
craving  of  the  heart  for  a sincere,  yet  changeful,  interest,  to  be 
fed  from  one  source  only.  Under  natural  conditions  the 
degree  of  mental  excitement  necessary  to  bodily  health  is  pro- 
vided by  the  course  of  the  seasons,  and  the  various  skill  and 
fortune  of  agriculture.  In  the  country  every  morning  of  the 
year  brings  with  it  a new  aspect  of  springing  or  fading 
nature ; a new  duty  to  be  fulfilled  upon  earth,  and  a new 
promise  or  warning  in  heaven.  No  day  is  without  its  inno- 


6 


FICTIOlSr — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


cent  hope,  its  special  prudence,  its  kindly  gift,  and  its  sublime 
danger ; and  in  every  process  of  wise  husbandry,  and  every 
effort  of  contending  or  remedial  courage,  the  wholesome 
passions,  pride,  and  bodily  power  of  the  labourer  are  excited  and 
exerted  in  happiest  unison.  The  companionship  of  domestic, 
the  care  of  serviceable,  animals,  soften  and  enlarge  his  life 
with  lowly  charities,  and  discipline  him  in  familiar  wisdoms 
and  unboastful  fortitudes  ; while  the  divine  laws  of  seed-time 
which  cannot  be  recalled,  harvest  which  cannot  be  hastened, 
and  winter  in  which  no  man  can  work,  compel  the  impatiences 
and  coveting  of  his  heart  into  labour  too  submissive  to  be 
anxious,  and  rest  too  sweet  to  be  wanton.  What  thought  can 
enough  comprehend  the  contrast  between  such  life,  and  that 
in  streets  where  summer  and  winter  are  only  alternations  of 
heat  and  cold ; where  snow  never  fell  white,  nor  sunshine 
clear ; where  the  ground  is  only  a pavement,  and  the  sky  no 
more  than  the  glass  roof  of  an  arcade ; where  the  utmost 
power  of  a storm  is  to  choke  the  gutters,  and  the  finest  magic 
of  spring,  to  change  mud  into  dust : where — chief  and  most 
fatal  difference  in  state,  there  is  no  interest  of  occupation  for 
any  of  the  inhabitants  but  the  routine  of  counter  or  desk 
within  doors,  and  the  effort  to  pass  each  other  without  col- 
lision outside  ; so  that  from  morning  to  evening  the  only  pos- 
sible variation  of  the  monotony  of  the  hours,  and  lightening 
of  the  penalty  of  existence,  must  be  some  kind  of  mischief, 
limited,  unless  by  more  than  ordinary  godsend  of  fatality,  to 
the  fall  of  a horse,  or  the  slitting  of  a pocket. 

I said  that  under  these  laws  of  inanition,  the  craving  of  the 
human  heart  for  some  kind  of  excitement  could  be  supplied 
from  one  source  only.  It  might  have  been  thought  ‘ by  any 
other  than  a sternly  tentative  philosopher,  that  the  denial  of 
their  natural  food  to  human  feelings  would  have  provoked  a 
reactionary  desire  for  it ; and  that  the  dreariness  of  the  street 
would  have  been  gilded  by  dreams  of  pastoral  felicity.  Ex- 
perience has  shown  the  fact  to  be  otherwise  ; the  thoroughly 
trained  Londoner  can  enjoy  no  other  excitement  than  that  to 
which  he  has  been  accustomed,  but  asks  for  that  in  continually 


FICTIOI^^ — FAIK  AND  FOUL. 


7 


more  ardent  or  more  virulent  concentration ; and  the  ulti- 
mate power  of  fiction  to  entertain  him  is  by  varying  to  his 
fancy  the  modes,  and  defining  for  his  dulness  the  horrors,  of 
Death.  In  the  single  novel  of  Bleak  House  there  are  nine 
deaths  (or  left  for  death’s,  in  the  drop  scene)  carefully  wrought 
out  or  led  up  to,  either  by  way  of  pleasing  surprise,  as  the 
baby’s  at  the  brickmaker’s,  or  finished  in  their  threatenings 
and  sufferings,  with  as  much  enjoyment  as  can  be  contrived 
in  the  anticipation,  and  as  much  pathology  as  can  be  concen- 
trated in  the  description.  Under  the  following  varieties  of 
method : — 


One  by  assassination 

One  by  starvation,  with  phthisis 

One  by  chagrin 

One  by  spontaneous  combustion 

One  by  sorrow 

One  by  remorse 

One  by  insanity 

One  by  paralysis 


Mr.  Tulkinghorn. 

Joe. 

Eichard. 

Mr.  Krook. 

Lady  Dedlock’s  lover. 
Lady  Dedlock. 

Miss  Elite. 

Sir  Leicester. 


Besides  the  baby,  by  fever,  and  a lively  young  Frenchwoman 
left  to  be  hanged. 

And  all  this,  observe,  not  in  a tragic,  adventurous,  or  mili- 
tary story,  but  merely  as  the  further  enlivenment  of  a narrative 
intended  to  be  amusing ; and  as  a properly  representative 
average  of  the  statistics  of  civilian  mortality  in  the  centre  of 
London, 

Observe  further,  and  chiefly.  It  is  not  the  mere  number  of 
deaths  (which,  if  we  count  the  odd  troopers  in  the  last  scene, 
is  exceeded  in  Old  Mortality^  and  reached,  within  one  or  two, 
both  in  Waverley  and  Guy  Mannering)  that  marks  the  peculiar 
tone  of  the  modern  novel.  It  is  the  fact  that  all  these  deaths, 
but  one,  are  of  inoffensive,  or  at  least  in  the  world’s  estimate 
respectable  persons  ; and  that  they  are  all  grotesquely  either 
violent  or  miserable,  purporting  thus  to  illustrate  the  modern 
theology  that  the  appointed  destiny  of  a large  average  of  our 


8 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


population  is  to  die  like  rats  in  a drain,  either  by  trap  or 
poison.  Not,  indeed,  that  a lawyer  in  full  practice  can  be 
usually  supposed  as  faultless  in  the  eye  of  heaven  as  a dove 
or  a woodcock ; but  it  is  not,  in  former  divinities,  thought  the 
will  of  Providence  that  he  should  be  dropped  by  a shot  from 
a client  behind  his  fire-screen,  and  retrieved  in  the  morning 
by  his  housemaid  under  the  chandelier.  Neither  is  Lady 
Dedlock  less  reprehensible  in  her  conduct  than  many  women 
of  fashion  have  been  and  will  be : but  it  would  not  therefore 
have  been  thought  poetically  just,  in  old-fashioned  morality, 
that  she  should  be  found  by  her  daughter  lying  dead,  with 
her  face  in  the  mud  of  a St.  Giles’s  churchyard. 

In  the  work  of  the  great  masters  death  is  always  either 
heroic,  deserved,  or  quiet  and  natural  (unless  their  purpose  be 
totally  and  deeply  tragic,  when  collateral  meaner  death  is  per- 
mitted, like  that  of  Polonius  orPoderigo).  In  Old  Mortality^ 
four  of  the  deaths,  Bothwell’s,  Ensign  Grahame’s,  Macbriar’s, 
and  Evandale’s,  are  magnificently  heroic ; Burley’s  and  Oli- 
phant’s  long  deserved,  and  swift ; the  troopers’,  met  in  the 
discharge  of  their  military  duty,  and  the  old  raiser’s,  as  gentle 
as  the  passing  of  a cloud,  and  almost  beautiful  in  its  last  words 
of — now  unselfish — care. 

‘ Ailie  ’ (be  aye  ca’d  me  Ailie,  we  were  auld  acquaintance,)  ^ Ailie,  take 
ye  care  and  baud  tbe  gear  weel  tbegitber  ; for  tbe  name  of  Morton  of 
Milnwood’s  gane  out  like  tbe  last  sougb  of  an  auld  sang/  And  sae  be 
fell  out  o’  ae  dwam  into  another,  and  ne’er  spak  a word  mair,  unless  it 
were  something  we  cou’dna  mak  out,  about  a dipped  candle  being  gude 
eneugb  to  see  to  dee  wi’.  He  cou’d  ne’er  bide  to  see  a moulded  ane,  and 
there  was  ane,  by  ill  luck,  on  tbe  table. 

In  Griy  Mannering^  the  murder,  though  unpremeditated,  of 
a single  person,  (himself  not  entirely  innocent,  but  at  least  by 
heartlessness  in  a cruel  function  earning  his  fate,)  is  avenged 
to  the  uttermost  on  all  the  men  conscious  of  the  crime  ; Mr. 
Bertram’s  death,  like  that  of  his  wife,  brief  in  pain,  and  each 
told  in  the  space  of  half-a-dozen  lines  ; and  that  of  the  heroine 
of  the  tale,  self -devoted,  heroic  in  the  highest,  and  happy. 

Nor  is  it  ever  to  be  forgotten,  in  the  comparison  of  Scott’s 


nCTIOK — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


9 


with  inferior  work,  that  his  own  splendid  powers  were,  even 
in  early  life,  tainted,  and  in  his  latter  years  destroyed,  by 
modern  conditions  of  commercial  excitement,  then  first,  but 
rapidly,  developing  themselves.  There  are  parts  even  in  his 
best  novels  coloured  to  meet  tastes  which  he  despised ; and 
many  pages  written  in  his  later  ones  to  lengthen  his  article 
for  the  indiscriminate  market. 

But  there  was  one  weakness  of  which  his  healthy  mind 
remained  incapable  to  the  last.  In  modern  stories  prepared 
for  more  refined  or  fastidious  audiences  than  those  of  Dickens, 
the  funereal  excitement  is  obtained,  for  the  most  part,  not  by 
the  infliction  of  violent  or  disgusting  death ; but  in  the  sus- 
pense, the  pathos,  and  the  more  or  less  by  all  felt,  and  recog- 
nised, mortal  phenomena  of  the  sick-room.  The  temptation, 
to  weak  writers,  of  this  order  of  subject  is  especially  great, 
because  the  study  of  it  from  the  living— or  dying — model  is 
so  easy,  and  to  many  has  been  the  most  impressive  part  of 
their  own  personal  experience;  while,  if  the  description  be 
given  even  with  mediocre  accuracy,  a very  large  section  of 
readers  will  admire  its  truth,  and  cherish  its  melancholy. 
Few  authors  of  second  or  third  rate  genius  can  either  record 
or  invent  a probable  conversation  in  ordinary  life  ; but  few, 
on  the  other  hand,  are  so  destitute  of  observant  faculty  as  to 
be  unable  to  chronicle  the  broken  syllables  and  languid  move- 
ments of  an  invalid.  The  easily  rendered,  and  too  surely 
recognised,  image  of  familiar  suffering  is  felt  at  once  to  be 
real  where  all  else  had  been  false ; and  the  historian  of  the 
gestures  of  fever  and  words  of  delirium  can  count  on  the 
applause  of  a gratified  audience  as  surely  as  the  dramatist  who 
introduces  on  the  stage  of  his  fiagging  action  a carriage  that 
can  be  driven  or  a fountain  that  will  fiow.  But  the  masters  of 
strong  imagination  disdain  such  work,  and  those  of  deep  sensi- 
bility shrink  from  it.*  Only  under  conditions  of  personal 

* Kell,  in  the  Old  Curiosity  SJiopy  was  simply  killed  for  the  market,  as  a 
butcher  kills  a lamb  (see  Forster’s  Life),  and  Paul  was  written  under  the 
same  conditions  of  illness  which  affected  Scott — a part  of  the  ominous 
palsies,  grasping  alike  author  and  subject,  both  in  Dorribey  and  Little  Dorrit, 


10 


FICTIOK — FAIR  AKD  FOUL. 


weakness,  presently  to  be  noted,  would  Scott  comply  with  the 
cravings  of  liis  lower  audience  in  scenes  of  terror  like  the 
death  of  Front-de-Boeuf.  But  he  never  once  withdrew  the 
sacred  curtain  of  the  sick-chamber,  nor  permitted  the  disgrace 
of  wanton  tears  round  the  humiliation  of  strength,  or  the 
wreck  of  beauty. 

IV.  No  exception  to  this  law  of  reverence  will  be  found  in 
the  scenes  in  Cceur  de  Lion’s  illness  introductory  to  the  prin- 
cipal incident  in  the  Talisman,  An  inferior  writer  would 
have  made  the  king  charge  in  imagination  at  the  head  of  his 
chivalry,  or  wander  in  dreams  by  the  brooks  of  Aquitaine; 
but  Scott  allows  us  to  learn  no  more  startling  symptoms  of 
the  king’s  malady  than  that  he  was  restless  and  impatient,  and 
could  not  wear  his  armour.  Nor  is  any  bodily  weakness,  or 
crisis  of  danger,  permitted  to  disturb  for  an  instant  the  royalty 
of  intelligence  and  heart  in  which  he  examines,  trusts  and 
obeys  the  physician  whom  his  attendants  fear. 

Yet  the  choice  of  the  main  subject  in  this  story  and  its 
companion — the  trial,  to  a point  of  utter  torture,  of  knightly 
faith,  and  several  passages  in  the  conduct  of  both,  more  es- 
pecially the  exaggerated  scenes  in  the  House  of  Baldringham, 
and  hermitage  of  Engedi,  are  signs  of  the  gradual  decline  in 
force  of  intellect  and  soul  which  those  who  love  Scott  best 
have  done  him  the  worst  injustice  in  their  endeavours  to 
disguise  or  deny.  The  mean  anxieties,  moral  humiliations, 
and  mercilessly  demanded  brain-toil,  which  killed  him,  show 
their  sepulchral  grasp  for  many  and  many  a year  before  their 
final  victory;  and  the  states  of  more  or  less  dulled,  distorted, 
and  polluted  imagination  which  culminate  in  Castle  Danger- 
ous,, cast  a Stygian  hue  over  St,  Ronarus  Well^  The  Fair 
Maid  of  Perth,,  and  Anne  of  Geierstein^  which  lowers  them, 
the  first  altogether,  the  other  two  at  frequent  intervals,  into 
fellowship  with  the  normal  disease  which  festers  throughout 
the  whole  body  of  our  lower  fictitious  literature. 

Fictitious ! I use  the  ambiguous  word  deliberately ; for  it 
is  impossible  to  distinguish  in  these  tales  of  the  prison-house 
how  far  their  vice  and  gloom  are  thrown  into  their  manufac- 


FICTIOi^ — FAIR  AND  FOUL.  11 

ture  only  to  meet  a vile  demand,  and  how  far  they  are  an 
integral  condition  of  thought  in  the  minds  of  men  trained 
from  their  youth  up  in  the  knowledge  of  Londinian  and 
Parisian  misery.  The  speciality  of  the  plague  is  a delight  in 
the  exposition  of  the  relations  between  guilt  and  decrepitude  ; 
and  I call  the  results  of  it  literature  ^ of  the  prison-house,’ 
because  the  thwarted  habits  of  body  and  mind,  which  are  the 
punishment  of  reckless  crowding  in  cities,  become,  in  the  issue; 
of  that  punishment,  frightful  subjects  of  exclusive  interest  to 
themselves ; and  the  art  of  fiction  in  which  they  finally  delight 
is  only  the  more  studied  arrangement  and  illustration,  by 
coloured  firelights,  of  the  daily  bulletins  of  their  own  wretch- 
edness, in  the  prison  calendar,  the  police  news,  and  the  hos- 
pital report. 

The  reader  will  perhaps  be  surprised  at  my  separating  the 
greatest  work  of  Dickens,  Oliver  Twisty  with  honour,  from 
the  loathsome  mass  to  which  it  typically  belongs.  That  book 
is  an  earnest  and  uncaricatured  record  of  states  of  criminal 
life,  written  with  diadactic  purpose,  full  of  the  gravest  instruc- 
tion, nor  destitute  of  pathetic  studies  of  noble  passion.  Even 
the  Mysteries  of  Paris  and  Gaboriau’s  Crime  PAugival  are 
raised,  by  their  definiteness  of  historical  intention  and  fore- 
warning anxiety,  far  above  the  level  of  their  order,  and  may 
be  accepted  as  photographic  evidence  of  an  otherwise  incredi- 
ble civilisation,  corrupted  in  the  infernal  fact  of  it,  down  to 
the  genesis  of  such  figures  as  the  Yicomte  d’Augival,  the 
Stabber,"^  the  Skeleton,  and  the  She-wolf.  But  the  effectual 


* ‘ Chourineur  ’ not  striking  with  dagger-point,  but  ripping  wijth  knife-edge. 
Yet  I do  him,  and  La  Louve,  injustice  in  classing  them  with  the  two 
others ; they  are  put  together  only  as  parts  in  the  same  phantasm.  Compare 
with  La  Louve,  the  strength  of  wild  virtue  in  the  ‘ Louvecienne  ’ (Lucienne) 
of  Gaboriau — she,  province-born  and  bred ; and  opposed  to  Parisian  civilisa- 
tion in  the  character  of  her  sempstress  friend.  ‘ De  ce  Paris,  ou  elle  etait 
nee,  elle  savait  tout — elle  connaissait  tout.  Kien  ne  l*etonnait,  nui  ne 
rintimidait.  Sa  science  des  details  matepels  de  Vexistence  etait  inconcevable. 
Impossible  de  la  duper  !— Eh  bicn  ! cette  fille  si  laborieuse  et  si  econome 
n’avait  mSme  pas  la  plus  vague  notion  des  sentiments  qui  sont  I’honneur  de 
la  icmme.  Je  n’avais  pas  idee  d’une  si  complete  absence  de  sens  moral ; 


12 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


head  of  the  whole  cretinous  school  is  the  renowned  novel  in 
which  the  hunchback  lover  watches  the  execution  of  his 
mistress  from  the  tower  of  IN^otre-Dame ; and  its  strength 
passes  gradually  away  into  the  anatomical  preparations,  for 
the  general  market,  of  novels  like  Poor  Miss  Finch^  in  which 
the  heroine  is  blind,  the  hero  epileptic,  and  the  obnoxious 
brother  is  found  dead  with  his  hands  dropped  off,  in  the 
Arctic  regions.* * 


d’une  si  inconsciente  depravation,  d’une  impudence  si  effrontement  naive.’ — 
L' Argent  des  autres,  vol.  i.  p.  358. 

* The  reader  who  cares  to  seek  it  may  easily  find  medical  evidence  of  the 
physical  effects  of  certain  states  of  brain  disease  in  producing  especially 
images  of  truncated  and  Hermes- like  deformity,  complicated  with  grossness. 
Horace,  in  the  Epodes,  scoffs  at  it,  but  not  without  horror.  Luca  Signorelli 
and  Eaphael  in  their  arabesques  are  deeply  struck  by  it ; Durer,  defying 
and  playing  with  it  alternately,  is  almost  beaten  down  again  and  again  in 
the  distorted  faces,  hewing  halberts,  and  suspended  satyrs  of  his  arabesques 
round  the  polyglot  Lord’s  Prayer ; it  takes  entire  possession  of  Balzac  in  the 
Contes  Drolatiques ; it  struck  Scott  in  the  earliest  days  of  his  childish 

* visions  ’ intensified  by  the  axe-stroke  murder  of  his  grand  aunt ; L.  i.  142, 
and  see  close  of  this  note.  It  chose  for  him  the  subject  of  the  Heart  of 
Midlothian,  and  produced  afterwards  all  the  recurrent  ideas  of  executions, 
tainting  Nigel,  almost  spoiling  (Quentin  Durward — utterly  the  Fair  Maid  of 
Perth : and  culminating  in  Bizarro,  L.  x.  149.  It  suggested  all  the  deaths 
by  falling,  or  sinking,  as  in  delirious  sleep— Kennedy,  Eveline  Neville 
(nearly  repeated  in  Clara  Mowbray),  Amy  Robsart,  the  Master  of  Ravens- 
wood  in  the  quicksand,  Morris,  and  Corporal  Grace-be-here — compare  the 
dream  of  Gride,  in  Nicholas  NicMeby,  and  Dickens’s  own  last  words,  on  the 
ground,  (so  also,  in  my  own  inflammation  of  the  brain,  two  years  ago,  I 
dreamed  that  I fell  through  the  earth  and  came  out  bn  the  other  side).  In 
its  grotesque  and  distorting  power,  it  produced  all  the  figures  of  the  Lay 
Goblin,  Pacolet,  Flibbertigibbet,  Cockledemoy,  Geoffrey  Hudson,  Fenella, 
and  Nectabanus  ; in  Dickens  it  in  like  manner  gives  Quilp,  Krook,  Smike, 
Smallweed.  Miss  Mowcher,  and  the  dwarfs  and  wax-work  of  Nell's  cara- 
van ; and  runs  entirely  wild  in  Barnaby  Budge,  where,  with  a corps  de  drame 
composed  of  one  idiot,  two  madmen,  a gentleman  fool  who  is  also  a villain, 
a shop-boy  fool  who  is  also  a blackguard,  a hangman,  a shrivelled  virago, 
and  a doll  in  ribands— carrying  this  company  through  riot  and  fire,  till  he 
hangs  the  hangman,  one  of  the  madmen,  his  mother,  and  the  idiot,  runs  the 
gentleman-fool  through  in  a bloody  duel,  and  burns  and  crushes  the  shop- 
boy  fool  into  shapelessness,  he  cannot  yet  be  content  without  shooting  the 
spare  lover’s  leg  off,  and  marrying  him  to  the  doll  in  a wooden  one ; the 
shapeless  shop -boy  being  finally  also  married  in  two  wooden  ones.  It  is  this 


FICTIOlSr — FAIR  AKD  FOUL. 


13 


This  literature  of  the  Prison-house,  understanding  by  the 
word  not  only  the  cell  of  Newgate,  but  also  and  even  more 
definitely  the  cell  of  the  Hotel-Dieu,  the  Hopital  des  Fous, 
and  the  grated  corridor  with  the  dripping  slabs  of  the  Morgue, 


mutilation,  observe,  which  is  the  very  sign  manual  of  the  plague  ; joined,  in 
the  artistic  forms  of  it,  with  a love  of  thorniness — (in  their  mystic  root,  the 
truncation  of  the  limbless  serpent  and  the  spines  of  the  dragon’s  wing. 
Compare  Modern  Painters,  vol.  iv.,  ‘Chapter  on  the  Mountain  Gloom,’ 
s.  19) ; and  in  all  forms  of  it,  with  petrifaction  or  loss  of  power  by  cold  in 
the  blood,  whence  the  last  Darwinian  process  of  the  witches’  charm — ‘ cool 
it  with  a baboon’s  blood,  then  the  charm  is  firm  and  good.’  The  two  frescoes 
in  the  colossal  handbills  which  have  lately  decorated  the  streets  of  London 
(the  baboon  with  the  mirror,  and  the  Maskelyne  and  Cooke  decapitation)  are 
the  final  English  forms  of  Raphael’s  arabesque  under  this  influence  ; and  it 
is  well  worth  while  to  get  the  number  for  the  week  ending  April  3,  1880,  of 
Young  Folks — ‘ A magazine  of  instructive  and  entertaining  literature  for 
boys  and  girls  of  all  ages,’  containing  ‘ A Sequel  to  Desdichado  ’ (the  mod- 
ern development  of  Ivanhoe),  iu  which  a quite  monumental  example  of  the 
kind  of  art  in  question  will  be  found  as  a leading  illustration  of  this  charac- 
teristic sentence,  “ See,  good  Cerberus,”  said  Sir  Rupert,  “ my  hand  has 
been  struck  off.  You  must  make  me  a hand  of  iron,  one  with  springs  in  it,  so 
that  I can  make  it  grasp  a dagger.''  The  text  is  also,  as  it  professes  to  be, 
instructive  ; being  the  ultimate  degeneration  of  what  I have  above  called  the 
‘ folly  ’ of  Imnhoe ; for  folly  begets  folly  down,  and  down  ; and  whatever 
Scott  and  Turner  did  wrong  has  thousands  of  imitators — their  wisdom  none 
will  so  much  as  hear,  how  much  less  follow  ! 

In  both  of  the  Masters,  it  is  always  to  be  remembered  that  the  evil  and 
good  are  alike  conditions  of  literal  rision : and  therefore  also,  inseparably 
connected  with  the  state  of  the  health.  I believe  the  first  elements  of  all 
Scott’s  errors  were  in  the  milk  of  his  consumptive  nurse,  which  all  but 
killed  him  as  an  infant,  L.  i.  19 — and  was  without  doubt  the  cause  of  the 
teething  fever  that  ended  in  bis  lameness  (L.  i.  20).  Then  came  (if  the 
reader  cares  to  know  what  I mean  by  Fors,  let  him  read  the  page  carefully) 
the  fearful  accidents  to  his  only  sister,  and  her  death,  L.  i.  17 ; then  the 
madness  of  his  nurse,  who  planned  his  own  murder  (21),  then  the  stories 
continually  told  him  of  the  executions  at  Carlisle  (24),  his  aunt’s  husband 
having  seen  them ; issuing,  he  himself  scarcely  knows  how,  in  the  unac- 
countable terror  that  came  upon  him  at  the  sight  .of  statuary,  31 — especially 
Jacob’s  ladder  ; then  the  murder  of  Mrs.  Swinton,  and  finally  the  nearly 
fatal  bursting  of  the  bloodvessel  at  Kelso,  with  the  succeeding  nervous  ill 
ness,  65-67 — solaced,  while  he  was  being  ‘ bled  and  blistered  till  he  had 
scarcely  a pulse  left,’  by  that  history  of  the  Knights  of  Malta — fondly  dwelt 
on  and  realised  by  actual  modelling  of  their  fortress,  which  returned  to  his 
mind  for  the  theme  of  its  last  effort  in  passing  away. 


14 


nCTIOK — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


having  its  central  root  thus  in  the  He  de  Paris  — or  his^ 
torically  and  pre-eminently  the  ^ Cite  de  Paris  ^ — ^is,  when 
understood  deeply,  the  precise  counter-corruption  of  the 
religion  of  the  Sainte  Chapelle,  just  as  the  worst  forms  of 
bodily  and  mental  ruin  are  the  corruption  of  love.  I have 
therefore  called  it  ^Fiction  mecroyante/  with  literal  accuracy 
and  precision ; according  to  the  explanation  of  the  word 
which  the  reader  may  find  in  any  good  Frorich  dictionary,* 
and  round  its  Arctic  pole  in  the  Morgue,  he  may  gather  into 
one  Caina  of  gelid  putrescence  the  entire  product  of  modern 
infidel  imagination,  amusing  itself  with  destruction  of  the 
body,  and  busying  itself  with  aberration  of  the  mind. 

Aberration,  palsy,  or  plague,  observe,  as  distinguished  from 
normal  evil,  just  as  the  venom  of  rabies  or  cholera  differs 
from  that  of  a wasp  or  a viper.  The  life  of  the  insect  and 
serpent  deserves,  or  at  least  permits,  our  thoughts ; not  so 
the  stages  of  agony  in  the  fury-driven  hound.  There  is  some 
excuse,  indeed,  for  the  pathologic  labour  of  the  modern  nov- 
elist in  the  fact  that  he  cannot  easily,  in  a city  population, 
find  a healthy  mind  to  vivisect : but  the  greater  part  of  such 
amateur  surgery  is  the  struggle,  in  an  epoch  of  wild  literary 
competition,  to  obtain  novelty  of  material.  The  varieties  of 
aspect  and  colour  in  healthy  fruit,  be  it  sweet  or  sour,  may 
be  within  certain  limits  described  exhaustively.  ISTot  so  the 
blotches  of  its  conceivable  blight : and  while  the  symmetries 
of  integral  human  character  can  only  be  traced  by  harmonious 
and  tender  skill,  like  the  branches  of  a living  tree,  the  faults 
and  gaps  of  one  gnawed  away  by  corroding  accident  can  be 
shuffled  into  senseless  change  like  the  wards  of  a Chubb  lock. 

Y.  It  is  needless  to  insist  on  the  vast  field  for  this  dice-cast 
or  card-dealt  calamity  which  opens  itself  in  the  ignorance, 
money-interest,  and  mean  passion,  of  city  marriage.  Peasants 
know  each  other  as  children — meet,  as  they  grow  up  in  test- 
ing labour  ; and  if  a stout  farmer’s  son  marries  a handless 
girl,  it  is  his  own  fault.  Also  in  the  patrician  families  of  the 

* ‘ Se  dit  par  denigrement,  d’un  cliretien  qui  ne  croit  pas  les  dogmcs 
de  sa  religion/ — Fleming,  vol.  ii.  p.  659. 


FICTION^ — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


15 


field,  the  yonug  people  know  what  they  are  doing,  and  marry 
a neighbouring  estate,  or  a covetable  title,  with  some  concep- 
tion of  the  responsibilities  they  undertake.  But  even  among 
these,  their  season  in  the  confused  metropolis  creates  licentious 
and  fortuitous  temptation  before  unknown  ; and  in  the  lower 
middle  orders,  an  entirely  new  kingdom  of  discomfort  and 
disgrace  has  been  preached  to  them  in  the  doctrines  of  un- 
bridled pleasure  which  are  merely  an  apology  for  their  pecul- 
iar forms  of  illbreeding.  It  is  quite  curious  how  often  the 
catastrophe,  or  the  leading  interest,  of  a modern  novel,  turns 
upon  the  want,  both  in  maid  and  bachelor,  of  the  common 
self-command  which  was  taught  to  their  grandmothers  and 
grandfathers  as  the  first  element  of  ordinarily  decent  behav- 
iour. Rashly  inquiring  the  other  day  the  plot  of  a modern 
story  from  a female  friend,  I elicited,  after  some  hesitation, 
that  it  hinged  mainly  on  the  young  people’s  ^ forgetting  them- 
selves in  a boat ; ’ and  I perceive  it  to  be  accepted  as  nearly 
an  axiom  in  the  code  of  modern  civic  chivalry  that  the  strength 
of  amiable  sentiment  is  proved  by  our  incapacity  on  proper 
occasions  to  express,  and  on  improper  ones  to  control  it.  The 
pride  of  a gentleman  of  the  old  school  used  to  be  in  his  power 
of  saying  what  he  meant,  and  being  silent  when  he  ought, 
(not  to  speak  of  the  higher  nobleness  which  bestowed  love 
where  it  was  honourable,  and  reverence  where  it  was  due) ; 
but  the  automatic  amours  and  involuntary  proposals  of  recent 
romance  acknowledge  little  further  law  of  morality  than  the 
instinct  of  an  insect,  or  the  effervescence  of  a chemical  mix- 
ture. 

There  is  a pretty  little  story  of  Alfred  de  Musset’s, — La 
Mouche^  which,  if  the  reader  cares  to  glance  at  it,  will  save 
me  further  trouble  in  explaining  the  disciplinarian  authority 
of  mere  old-fashioned  politeness,  as  in  some  sort  protective  of 
higher  things.  It  describes,  with  much  grace  and  precision, 
a state  of  society  by  no  means  pre-eminently  virtuous,  or  en- 
thusiastically heroic ; in  which  many  people  do  extremely 
wrong,  and  none  sublimely  right.  But  as  there  are  heights 
of  which  the  achievement  is  unattempted,  there  are  abysses 


16 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


to  which  fall  is  barred  ; neither  accident  nor  temptation  will 
make  any  of  the  principal  personages  swerve  from  an  adopted 
resolution,  or  violate  an  accepted  principle  of  honour ; people 
are  expected  as  a matter  of  course  to  speak  with  propriety  on 
occasion,  and  to  wait  with  patience  when  they  are  bid  : those 
who  do  wrong,  admit  it ; those  who  do  right  don’t  boast  of 
it ; everybody  knows  his  own  mind,  and  everybody  has  good 
manners. 

Nor  must  it  be  forgotten  that  in  the  worst  days  of  the  self- 
indulgence  which  destroyed  the  aristocracies  of  Europe,  their 
vices,  however  licentious,  were  never,  in  the  fatal  modern 
sense,  ‘ unprincipled.’  The  vainest  believed  in  virtue ; the 
vilest  respected  it.  ‘ Chaque  chose  avait  son  nom,’  * and  the 
severest  of  English  moralists  recognises  the  accurate  wit,  the 
lofty  intellect,  and  the  unfretted  benevolence,  which  redeemed 
from  vitiated  surroundings  the  circle  of  d’Alembert  and  Mar- 
montel.f 

I have  said,  with  too  slight  praise,  that  the  vainest,  in  those 
days,  ^ believed  ’ in  virtue.  Beautiful  and  heroic  examples  of 
it  were  always  before  them  ; nor  was  it  without  the  secret  sig- 
nificance attaching  to  what  may  seem  the  least  accidents  in 
the  work  of  a master,  that  Scott  gave  to  botli  his  heroines  of 
the  age  of  revolution  in  England  the  name  of  the  queen  of  the 
highest  order  of  English  chivalry.:}; 

It  is  to  say  little  for  the  types  of  youth  and  maid  which 
alone  Scott  felt  it  a joy  to  imagine,  or  thought  it  honourable 
to  portray,  that  they  act  and  feel  in  a sphere  where  they  are 


* ' A son  nom/  properly.  The  sentence  is  one  of  Victor  Cherbuliez’s, 
in  Prosper  Randoce,  which  is  full  of  other  valuable  ones.  See  the  old 
nurse’s  ‘ ici  has  les  choses  vont  de  travers,  comme  un  chien  qui  va  a 
v(^pres/  p.  93;  and  compare  Prosper’s  treasures,  ‘la  petite  Venus,  et  le 
petit  Christ  d’ivoire,’  p.  121 ; also  Madame  Brehanne’s  request  for  the 
divertissement  of  ‘quelque  belle  batterie  a coups  de  coutcau’  with  Did 
ier’s  answer.  ‘ Helas ! madame,  vous  jouez  de  malheur,  ici  dans  la 
Drome,  I’on  se  massacre  aussi  pen  que  possible,’  p.  33. 
f Edgeworth’s  (Hunter,  1827),  ‘Harrington  and  Ormond/  voL  hi. 

p.  260. 

t Alice  of  Salisbury,  Alice  Lee,  Alice  Bridgnorth. 


FICTIOK — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


17 


never  for  an  instant  liable  to  any  of  the  weaknesses  which 
disturb  the  calm,  or  shake  the  resolution,  of  chastity  and 
courage  in  a modern  novel.  Scott  lived  in  a country  and  time, 
when,  from  highest  to  lowest,  but  chiefly  in  that  dignified  and 
nobly  severe*  middle  class  to  which  he  himself  belonged,  a 
habit  of  serene  and  stainless  thought  was  as  natural  to  the  peo- 
ple as  their  mountain  air.  Women  like  Rose  Bradwardine  and 
AilieDinmont  were  the  grace  and  guard  of  almost  every  house- 
hold (God  be  praised  that  the  race  of  them  is  not  yet  extinct, 
for  all  that  Mall  or  Boulevard  can  do),  and  it  has  perhaps  es- 
caped the  notice  of  even  attentive  readers  that  the  compara- 
tively uninteresting  character  of  Sir  Walter’s  heroes  had  always 
been  studied  among  a class  of  youths  who  were  simply  inca- 
pable of  doing  anything  seriously  wrong  ; and  could  only  be 
embarrassed  by  the  consequences  of  their  levity  or  impru- 
dence. 

But  there  is  another  difference  in  the  woof  of  a Waverley 
novel  from  the  cobweb  of  a modern  one,  which  depends  on 
Scott’s  larger  view  of  human  life.  Marriage  is  by  no  means, 
in  his  conception  of  man  and  woman,  the  most  important  busi- 
ness of  their  existence  ; f nor  love  the  only  reward  to  be  pro- 
posed to  their  virtue  or  exertion.^  It  is  not  in  his  reading  of 
the  laws  of  Providence  a necessity  that  virtue  should,  either 
by  love  or  any  other  external  blessing,  be  rewarded  at  all ; ^ 
and  marriage  is  in  all  cases  thought  of  as  a constituent  of  the 
happiness  of  life,  but  not  as  its  only  interest,  still  less  its  only 
aim.  And  upon  analysing  with  some  care  the  motives  of  his 

* Scott’s  father  was  habitually  ascetic.  ‘ I have  heard  his  son  tell  that 
it  was  common  with  him,  if  any  one  observed  that  the  soup  was  good, 
to  taste  it  again,  and  say,  “Yes — it  is  too  good,  bairns,”  and  dash  a 
tumbler  of  cold  water  into  his  plate.’ — Lockhart’s  Life  (Black,  Edinburgh, 
1869),  vol.  i.  p.  312.  In  other  places  I refer  to  this  book  in  the  simple 
form  of  ‘ L.’ 

f A young  lady  sang  to  me  just  before  I copied  out  this  page  for  press, 
a Miss  Somebody’s  ‘great  song,’  ‘ Live,  and  Love,  and  Die.’  Had  it  been 
written  for  nothing  better  than  silkworms,  it  should  at  least  have  added— 
Spin. 

X See  passage  of  introduction  to  Imnhoe,  wisely  quoted  in  L.  vi.  106, 

2 


18 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


principal  stories,  we  shall  often  find  that  the  love  in  them  is 
merely  a light  by  which  the  sterner  features  of  characters  are 
to  be  irradiated,  and  that  the  marriage  of  the  hero  is  as  sub- 
ordinate to  the  main  bent  of  the  story  as  Henry  the  Fifth’s 
courtship  of  Katherine  is  to  the  battle  of  Agincourt.  Nay,  the 
fortunes  of  the  person  who  is  nominally  the  subject  of  the  tale 
are  often  little  more  than  a background  on  which  grander 
figures  are  to  be  drawn,  and  deeper  fates  forth-shadowed.  The 
judgments  between  the  faith  and  chivalry  of  Scotland  at 
Drumclog  and  Bothwell  bridge  owe  little  of  their  interest  in 
the  mind  of  a sensible  reader  to  the  fact  that  the  captain  of  the 
Popinjay  is  carried  a prisoner  to  one  battle,  and  returns  a 
prisoner  from  the  other : and  Scott  himself,  while  he  watches 
the  white  sail  that  bears  Queen  Mary  for  the  last  time  from 
her  native  land,  very  nearly  forgets  to  finish  his  novel,  or  to 
tell  us — and  with  small  sense  of  any  consolation  to  be  had  out 
of  that  minor  circumstance, — that  ^ Roland  and  Catherine  were 
united,  spite  of  their  differing  faiths.’ 

Neither  let  it  be  thought  for  an  instant  that  the  slight,  and 
sometimes  scornful,  glance  with  which  Scott  passes  over  scenes 
which  a novelist  of  our  own  day  would  have  analysed  with  the 
airs  of  a philosopher,  and  painted  with  the  curiosity  of  a gos- 
sip, indicate  any  absence  in  his  heart  of  sympathy  with  the 
great  and  sacred  elements  of  personal  happiness.  An  era  like 
ours,  which  has  with  diligence  and  ostentation  swept  its  heart 
clear  of  all  the  passions  once  known  as  loyalty,  patriotism,  and 
piety,  necessarily  magnifies  the  apparent  force  of  the  one  re- 
maining sentiment  which  sighs  through  the  barren  chambers, 
or  clings  inextricably  round  the  chasms  of  ruin ; nor  can  it 
but  regard  with  awe  the  unconquerable  spirit  which  still 
tempts  or  betrays  the  sagacities  of  selfishness  into  error  or 
frenzy  which  is  believed  to  be  love. 

That  Scott  was  never  himself,  in  the  sense  of  the  phrase  as 
employed  by  lovers  of  the  Parisian  school,  Mvre  d’amour,’ 
may  be  admitted  without  prejudice  to  his  sensibility,*  and  that 


*See  below,  note,  p.  23,  on  the  conclusion  of  Woodstock. 


FICTIO]^’ — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


19 


he  never  knew  ^ I’amor  die  move  ’1  sol  e I’altre  stelle,’  was  the 
chief,  though  unrecognised,  calamity  of  his  deeply  chequered 
life.  But  the  reader  of  honour  and  feeling  will  not  therefore 
suppose  that  the  love  which  Miss  Vernon  sacrifices,  stooping 
for  an  instant  from  her  horse,  is  of  less  noble  stamp,  or  less 
enduring  faith,  than  that  which  troubles  and  degrades  the 
whole  existence  of  Consuelo ; or  that  the  affection  of  Jeanie 
Deans  for  the  companion  of  her  childhood,  drawn  like  a field 
of  soft  blue  heaven  beyond  the  cloudy  wrack  of  her  sorrow, 
is  less  fully  in  possession  of  her  soul  than  the  hesitating  and 
self-reproachful  impulses  under  which  a modern  heroine  for- 
gets herself  in  a boat,  or  compromises  herself  in  the  cool  of 
the  evening. 

I do  not  wish  to  return  over  the  waste  ground  we  have  trav- 
ersed, comparing,  point  by  point,  Scott’s  manner  with  those 
of  Bermondsey  and  the  Faubourgs  ; but  it  may  be,  perhaps, 
interesting  at  this  moment  to  examine,  with  illustration  from 
those  Waverley  novels  which  have  so  lately  retracted  the  atten- 
tion of  a fair  and  gentle  public,  the  universal  conditions  of 
‘ style,’  rightly  so  called,  wFich  are  in  all  ages,  and  above  all 
local  currents  or  wavering  tides  of  temporary  manners,  pillars 
of  what  is  for  ever  strong,  and  models  of  what  is  for  ever  fair. 

But  I must  first  define,  and  that  within  strict  horizon,  the 
works  of  Scott,  in  which  his  perfect  mind  may  be  known,  and 
his  chosen  ways  understood. 

His  great  works  of  prose  fiction,  excepting  only  the  first 
half-volume  of  Waverley^  were  all  written  in  twelve  years, 
1814-26  (of  his  own  age  forty-three  to  fifty -five),  the  actual 
time  employed  in  their  composition  being  not  more  than  a 
couple  of  months  out  of  each  year ; and  during  that  time  only 
the  morning  hours  and  spare  minutes  during  the  professional 
day.  ‘ Though  the  first  volume  of  Waverley  was  begun  long 
ago,  and  actually  lost  for  a time,  yet  the  other  two  were  begun 
and  finished  between  the  4th  of  June  and  the  first  of  July, 
during  all  which  I attended  my  duty  in  ^court,  and  proceeded 
without  loss  of  time  or  hindrance  of  business.’ 


*L.  iv.  177. 


20 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


Few  of  the  maxims  for  the  enforcement  of  which,  in  Modr 
ern  Painters^  long  ago,  I got  the  general  character  of  a lover 
of  paradox,  are  more  singular,  or  more  sure,  than  the  state- 
ment, apparently  so  encouraging  to  the  idle,  that  if  a great 
thing  can  be  done  at  all,  it  can  be  done  easily.  But  it  is  in 
that  kind  of  ease  with  which  a tree  blossoms  after  long  years 
of  gathered  strength,  and  all  Scott’s  great  writings  v/ere  the 
recreations  of  a mind  confirmed  in  dutiful  labour,  and  rich 
with  organic  gathering  of  boundless  resource. 

Omitting  from  our  count  the  two  minor  and  ill-finished 
sketches  of  the  Black  Dwarf  and  Legend  of  Montrose^  and,  for 
a reason  presently  to  be  noticed,  the  unhappy  St.  the 

memorable  romances  of  Scott  are  eighteen,  falling  into  three 
distinct  groups,  containing  six  each. 

The  first  group  is  distinguished  from  the  other  two  by 
characters  of  strength  and  felicity  which  never  more  appeared 
after  Scott  was  struck  down  by  his  terrific  illness  in  1819. 
It  includes  Waverley.^  Guy  Mannering.,  The  Antiquary,  Roh 
Roy^  Old  Mortality.^  and  The  Heart  of  Midlothian. 

The  composition  of  these  occupied  the  mornings  of  his 
happiest  days,  between  the  ages  of  43  and  48.  On  the  8th  of 
April,  1819  (he  was  48  on  the  preceding  15th  of  August)  he 
began  for  the  first  time  to  dictate — being  unable  for  the  ex- 
ertion of  writing — The  Bride  of  Lammermuir^  ^ the  affection- 
ate Laidlaw  beseeching  him  to  stop  dictating,  when  his  audi- 
ble suffering  filled  every  pause.  ^^Nay,  Willie,”  he  answered, 
only  see  that  the  doors  are  fast.  I would  fain  keep  all  the 
cry  as  well  as  all  the  wool  to  ourselves ; but  as  for  giving 
over  work,  that  can  only  be  when  I am  in  woollen.”  ’ * From 
this  time  forward  the  brightness  of  joy  and  sincerity  of  in- 
evitable humour,  which  perfected  the  imagery  of  the  earlier 
novels,  are  wholly  absent,  except  in  the  two  short  intervals  of 
health  unaccountably  restored,  in  which  he  wrote  Redgauntlet 
and  Nigel. 

It  is  strange,  but  only  a part  of  the  general  simplicity  of 


*L.  vi.  67. 


FICTION — FAIR  AKD  FOUL. 


21 


Scott’s  genius,  that  these  revivals  of  earlier  power  were  un- 
conscious, and  that  the  time  of  extreme  weakness  in  which  he 
wrote  St  Bonan^s  Well^  was  that  in  which  he  first  asserted 
his  own  restoration. 

It  is  also  a deeply  interesting  characteristic  of  his  noble 
nature  that  he  never  gains  anything  by  sickness ; the  whole 
man  breathes  or  faints  as  one  creature ; the  ache  that  stiffens 
a limb  chills  his  heart,  and  every  pang  of  the  stomach 
paralyses  the  brain.  It  is  not  so  with  inferior  minds,  in  the 
workings  of  which  it  is  often  impossible  to  distinguish  native 
from  narcotic  fancy,  and  throbs  of  conscience  from  those  of 
indigestion.  Whether  in  exaltation  or  languor,  the  colours 
of  mind  are  always  morbid,  which  gleam  on  the  sea  for  the 
‘ Ancient  Mariner,’  and  through  the  casements  on  ^ St.  Agnes’ 
Eve  ; ’ but  Scott  is  at  once  blinded  and  stultified  by  sickness  ; 
never  has  a fit  of  the  cramp  without  spoiling  a chapter,  and  is 
perhaps  the  only  author  of  vivid  imagination  who  never  wrote 
a foolish  word  but  when  he  was  ill. 

It  remains  only  to  be  noticed  on  this  point  that  any  strong 
natural  excitement,  affecting  the  deeper  springs  of  his  heart, 
would  at  once  restore  his  intellectual  powers  in  all  their  full- 
ness, and  that,  far  towards  their  sunset : but  that  the  strong 
will  on  which  he  prided  himself,  though  it  could  trample 
upon  pain,  silence  grief,  and  compel  industry,  never  could 
warm  his  imagination,  or  clear  the  judgment  in  his  darker 
hours. 

I believe  that  this  power  of  the  heart  over  the  intellect  is 
common  to  all  great  men : but  what  the  special  character  of 
emotion  was,  that  alone  could  lift  Scott  above  the  power  of 
death,  I am  about  to  ask  the  reader,  in  a little  while,  to  observe 
with  joyful  care. 

The  first  series  of  romances  then,  above  named,  are  all  that 
exhibit  the  emphasis  of  his  unharmed  faculties.  The  second 
group,  composed  in  the  three  years  subsequent  to  illness  all  but 
mortal,  bear  every  one  of  them  more  or  less  the  seal  of  it. 

They  consist  of  the  Bride  of  Lammermuir^  Ivcmhoe^  the 


22 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


Monastery^  the  Abbot^  Kenilworth^  and  the  Pirate.^  The 
marks  of  broken  health  on  all  these  are  essentially  twofold — 
prevailing  melancholy,  and  fantastic  improbability.  Three  of 
the  tales  are  agonizingly  tragic,  the  Abbot  scarcely  less  so  in 
its  main  event,  and  Ivanhoe  deeply  wounded,  through  all  its 
bright  panoply ; while  even  in  that  most  powerful  of  the  series, 
the  impossible  archeries  and  axestrokes,  the  incredibly  oppor- 
tune appearances  of  Locksley,  the  death  of  Ulrica,  and  the  re- 
suscitation of  Athelstane,  are  partly  boyish,  partly  feverish. 
Caleb  in  the  Bride^  Triptolemus  and  Halcro  in  the  Pirate^ 
are  all  laborious,  and  the  first  incongruous ; half  a volume  of 
the  Abbdt  is  spent  in  extremely  dull  detail  of  Roland’s  rela- 
tions with  his  fellow-servants  and  his  mistress,  which  have 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  future  story ; and  the  lady  of 
Avenel  herself  disappears  after  the  first  volume,  ^ like  a snaw 
wreath  when  it’s  thaw,  Jeanie.’  The  public  has  for  itself  pro- 
nounced on  the  Monastery^  though  as  much  too  harshly  as  it 
has  foolishly  praised  the  horrors  of  Pavenswood  and  the  non- 
sense of  Ivanhoe  / because  the  modern  public  finds  in  the  tor- 
ture and  adventure  of  these,  the  kind  of  excitement  which  it 
seeks  at  an  opera,  while  it  has  no  sympathy  whatever  with  the 
pastoral  happiness  of  Glendearg,  or  with  the  lingering  sim- 
plicities of  superstition  which  give  historical  likelihood  to  the 
legend  of  the  White  Lady. 

But  both  this  despised  tale  andTts  sequel  have  Scott’s  heart 
in  them.  The  first  was  begun  to  refresh  himself  in  the  inter- 
vals of  artificial  labour  on  Ivanhoe,  ‘ It  was  a relief,’  he  said, 
^ to  interlayUie  scenery  most  familiar  to  mef  with  the  strange 
world  for  which  I had  to  draw  so  much  on  imagination. ’f 

* ' One  other  such  novel,  and  there's  an  end  ; but  who  can  last  for  ever  ? 
who  ever  lasted  so  long  ? ' — Sydney  Smith  (of  the  Pirate)  to  Jeffrey,  Decem- 
ber 30,  1821.  {Letters,  vol.  ii.  p.  223.) 

f L.  vi.  p.  188.  Compare  the  description  of  Fairy  Dean,  vii.  192. 

t All,  alas  ! were  now  in  a great  measure  so  written.  ImnJioe,  The  Mon- 
astery, The  Abbot  and  Kenilworth  were  all  published  between  December  1819 
and  January  1821,  Constable  & Co.  giving  live  thousand  guineas  for  the  re- 
maining copyright  of  them,  Scott  clearing  ten  thousand  before  the  bargain 
was  completed ; and  before  the  Fortunes  of  Nigel  issued  from  the  press 


FICTIOK — FAIR  AND  FOUL.  23 

Through  all  the  closing  scenes  of  the  second  he  is  raised  to  his 
own  true  level  by  his  love  for  the  queen.  And  within  the 
code  of  Scott’s  work  to  which  I am  about  to  appeal  for  illns- 
tration  of  his  essential  powers,  I accept  the  Monastery  and 
Abbots  and  reject  from  it  the  remaining  four  of  this  group. 

The  last  series  contains  two  quite  noble  ones,  liedgaimtlet 
and  Nigel;  two  of  very  high  value,  Durward  and  Wood' 
stock;  the  slovenly  and  diffuse  Peveril^  written  for  the  trade  ; 
the  sickly  Tales  of  the  Crusaders^  and  the  entirely  broken  and 
diseased  St,  Ronan^s  Well,  This  last  I throw  out  of  count  al- 
together, and  of  the  rest,  accept  only  the  four  first  named  as 
sound  work ; so  that  the  list  of  the  novels  in  which  I propose 
to  examine  his  methods  and  ideal  standards,  reduces  itself  to 
these  following  twelve  (named  in  order  of  production) : Wa- 
verley^  Guy  Mannering^  the  Antiquary ^ Rob  Roy^  Old 
Mortality,,  the  Heart  of  Midlothian,,  the  Monastery,,  the 
Abbot,,  the  Fortunes  of  Nigel,,  Quentin  Durward,  and  Wood- 
stock,"^ 

It  is,  however,  too  late  to  enter  on  my  subject  in  this  article, 
which  I may  fitly  close  by  pointing  out  some  of  the  merely 
verbal  characteristics  of  his  style,  illustrative  in  little  ways  of 
the  questions  we  have  been  examining,  and  chiefly  of  the  one 
which  may  be  most  embarrassing  to  many  readers,  the  differ 
ence,  namely,  between  character  and  disease. 

One  quite  distinctive  charm  in  the  Waverleys  is  their  modi- 
fied use  of  the  Scottish  dialect ; but  it  has  not  generally  been 
observed,  either  by  their  imitators,  or  the  authors  of  different 


Scott  had  exchanged  instruments  and  received  his  bookseller’s  bills  for  no 
less  than  four  ‘ works  of  fiction,’  not  one  of  them  otherwise  described  in  the 
deeds  of  agreement,  to  be  produced  in  unbroken  succession,  each  of  them  to 
fill  up  at  least  three  volumes,  hut  with  proper  saving  clauses  as  to  increase  of 
copy  money  in  case  any  of  them  should  run  to  four  ; and  within  two  years  all 
this  anticipation  had  been  wiped  off  by  Peveril  of  the  Peak,  (Quentin  Bur- 
ward,  8t.  Ronan’s  Well,  and  Redgauntlet. 

* Woodstock  was  finished  26th  March,  1826.  He  knew  then  of  his  ruin  ; 
and  wrote  in  bitterness,  but  not  in  weakness.  The  closing  pages  are  the  most 
beautiful  of  the  book.  Bat  a month  afterwards  Lady  Scott  died  ; and  he 
never  wrote  glad  word  more. 


24 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


taste  who  have  written  for  a later  public,  that  there  is  a differ 
ence  between  the  dialect  of  a language,  and  its  corruption. 

A dialect  is  formed  in  any  district  where  there  are  persons 
of  intelligence  enough  to  use  the  language  itself  in  all  its  fine- 
ness and  force,  but  under  the  particular  conditions  of  life,  cli- 
mate, and  temper,  which  introduce  words  peculiar  to  the  scen- 
ery, forms  of  word  and  idioms  of  sentence  peculiar  to  the 
race,  and  pronunciations  indicative  of  their  character  and  dis- 
position. 

Thus  ‘ burn  ^ (of  a streamlet)  is  a word  possible  only  in  a 
country  where  there  are  brightly  running  waters,  ^ lassie,’  a 
word  possible  only  where  girls  are  as  free  as  the  rivulets,  and 
‘ auld,’  a form  of  the  southern  ^ old,’  adopted  by  a race  of  finer 
musical  ear  than  the  English. 

On  the  contrary,  mere  deteriorations,  or  coarse,  stridulent, 
and,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  phrase,  ‘ broad  ’ forms  of  ut- 
terance, are  not  dialects  at  all,  having  nothing  dialectic  in  them^ 
and  all  phrases  developed  in  states  of  rude  employment,  and 
restricted  intercourse,  are  injurious  to  the  tone  and  narrowing 
to  the  power  of  the  language  they  affect.  Mere  breadth  of  ac- 
cent does  not  spoil  a dialect  as  long  as  the  speakers  are  men  of 
varied  idea  and  good  intelligence  ; but  the  moment  the  life  is 
contracted  by  mining,  millwork,  or  any  oppressive  and  monot- 
onous labour,  the  accents  and  phrases  become  debased.  It  is 
part  of  the  popular  folly  of  the  day  to  find  pleasure  in  trying 
to  write  and  spell  these  abortive,  crippled,  and  more  or  less 
brutal  forms  of  human  speech. 

Abortive,  crippled,  or  brutal,  are  however  not  necessarily 
^corrupted’  dialects.  Corrupt  language  is  that  gathered  by 
ignorance,  invented  by  vice,  misused  by  insensibility,  or 
minced  and  mouthed  by  affectation,  especially  in  the  attempt 
to  deal  with  words  of  which  only  half  the  meaning  is  under- 
stood, or  half  the  sound  heard.  Mrs.  Gamp’s  ^ aperiently  so  ’ 
— and  the  ^ undermined  ’ with  primal  sense  of  undermine,  of 
— I forget  which  gossip,  in  the  Jlfill  on  the  Floss^  are  master- 
and  mistress  pieces  in  this  latter  kind.  Mrs.  Malaprop’s  ^alle- 
gories on  the  banks  of  the  Nile’  are  in  a somewhat  higher 


FICTIOlSr — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


25 


order  of  mistake:  Miss  Tabitha  Bramble’s  ignorance  is  vul- 
garised bj  her  selfishness,  and  Winifred  Jenkins’  by  her  con- 
ceit. The  ^wot’  of  Noah  Claypole,  and  the  other  degrada- 
tions of  cockneyism  (Sam  Weller  and  his  father  are  in  nothing 
more  admirable  than  in  the  power  of  heart  and  sense  that  can 
purify  even  these) ; the  ^ trewth  ’ of  Mr.  Chadband,  and 
^ natur  ’ of  Mr.  Squeers,  are  examples  of  the  corruption  of 
words  by  insensibility  : the  use  of  the  word  ^ bloody  ’ in  mod- 
ern low  English  is  a deeper  corruption,  not  altering  the  form- 
of  the  word,  but  defiling  the  thought  in  it. 

Thus  much  being  understood,  I shall  proceed  to  examine 
thoroughly  a fragment  of  Scott’s  Lowland  Scottish  dialect ; 
not  choosing  it  of  the  most  beautiful  kind ; on  the  contrary, 
it  shall  be  a piece  reaching  as  low  down  as  he  ever  allows 
Scotch  to  go — it  is  perhaps  the  only  unfair  patriotism  in  him, 
that  if  ever  he  wants  a word  or  two  of  reallj^  villanous  slang, 
he  gives  it  in  English  or  Dutch — not  Scotch. 

I had  intended  in  the  close  of  this  paper  to  analyse  and 
compare  the  characters  of  Andrew  Fairservice  and  Richie 
Moniplies  for  examples,  the  former  of  innate  evil,  unaffected 
by  external  influences,  and  un diseased,  but  distinct  from  nat- 
ural goodness  as  a nettle  is  distinct  from  balm  or  lavender ; 
and  the  latter  of  innate  goodness,  contracted  and  pinched  by 
circumstance,  but  still  undiseased,  as  an  oak-leaf  crisped  by 
frost,  not  by  the  worm.  This,  with  much  else  in  my  mind, 
I must  put  off ; but  the  careful  study  of  one  sentence  of 
Andrew’s  will  give  us  a good  deal  to  think  of. 

I take  his  account  of  the  rescue  of  Glasgow  Cathedral  at  the 
time  of  the  Reformation. 

Ah  ! it’s  a brave  kirk — nane  o’  yere  whigmaleeries  and  curliewurlies  and 
opensteek  hems  about  it — a’  solid,  weel-jointed  mason-wark,  that  will  stand 
as  lang  as  the  warld,  keep  hands  and  gunpowther  alf  it.  It  had  amaist  a 
douncome  lang  syne  at  the  Keformation,  when  they  pil’d  doiin  the  kirks  of 
St.  Andrews  and  Perth,  and  thereawa’,  to  cleanse  them  o’  Papery,  and  idol- 
atry, and  image-worship,  and  surplices,  and  sic-like  rags  o’  the  muckle  hure 
that  sitteth  on  seven  hills,  as  if  ane  wasna  braid  eneugh  for  her  auld  hinder 
end.  Sae  the  commons  o’  Renfrew,  and  o’  the  Barony,  and  the  Gorbals,  and 
a’  about,  they  behoved  to  come  into  Glasgow  ae  fair  morning,  to  try  their 


26 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


hand  on  purging  the  High  Kirk  o’  Popish  nick-nackets.  But  the  townsmen  ' 
o’  Glasgow,  they  were  feared  their  auld  edifice  might  slip  the  girths  in  gaun 
through  siccan  rough  physic,  sae  they  rang  the  common  bell,  and  assembled 
the  train-bands  wi’took  o’  drum.  By  good  luck,  the  worthy  James  liabat 
was  Dean  o’  Guild  that  year — (and  a gude  mason  he  was  himsell,  made  him 
the  keener  to  keep  up  the  auld  bigging),  and  the  trades  assembled,  and 
offered  downright  battle  to  the  commons,  rather  than  their  kirk  should  coup 
the  crans,  as  others  had  done  elsewhere.  It  wasna  for  luve  o’  Paperie — na, 
na  ! — nane  could  ever  say  that  o’  the  trades  o’  Glasgow — Sae  they  sune  came 
to  an  agreement  to  take  a’  the  idolatrous  statues  of  sants  (sorrow  be  on 
them  !)  out  o’  their  neuks — And  sae  the  bits  o’  stane  idols  were  broken  in 
pieces  by  Scripture  warrant,  and  flung  into  the  Molendinar  burn,  and  the 
auld  kirk  stood  as  cfouse  as  a cat  when  the  flaes  are  kaimed  aff  her,  and 
a’body  was  alike  pleased.  And  I hae  heard  wise  folk  say,  that  if  the  same 
had  been  done  in  ilka  kirk  in  Scotland,  the  Reform  wad  just  hae  been  as 
pure  as  it  is  e’en  now,  and  we  wad  hae  mair  Christian-like  kirks  ; for  I hae 
been  sae  lang  in  England,  that  naething  will  drived  out  o’  my  head,  that  the 
dog-kennel  at  Osbaldistone-Hall  is  better  than  mony  a house  o’  God  in  Scot- 
land. 

Now  this  sentence  is  in  the  first  place  a piece  of  Scottish 
history  of  quite  inestimable  and  concentrated  value.  Andrew’s 
temperament  is  the  type  of  a vast  class  of  Scottish — shall  we 
call  it  ^ ^c)?/;-thistlian  ’ — mind,  which  necessarily  takes  the  view 
of  either  Pope  or  saint  that  the  thistle  in  Lebanon  took  of  the 
cedar  or  lilies  in  Lebanon  ; and  the  entire  force  of  the  passions 
which,  in  the  Scottish  revolution,  foretold  and  forearmed  the 
French  one,  is  told  in  this  one  paragraph ; the  coarseness  of  it, 
observe,  being  admitted,  not  for  the  sake  of  the  laugh,  any 
more  than  an  onion  in  broth  merely  for  its  fiavour,  but  for 
the  meat  of  it ; the  inherent  constancy  of  that  coarseness  being 
a fact  in  this  order  of  mind,  and  an  essential  part  of  the  history 
to  be  told. 

Secondly,  observe  that  this  speech,  in  the  religious  passion 
of  it,  such  as  there  may  be,  is  entirely  sincere.  Andrew  is  a 
thief,  a liar,  a coward,  and,  in  the  Fair  service  from  which  he 
takes  his  name,  a hypocrite ; but  in  the  form  of  prejudice, 
winch  is  all  that  his  mind  is  capable  of  in  the  place  of  religion, 
he  is  entirely  sincere.  He  does  not  in  the  least  pretend  detes- 
tation of  image  worship  to  please  his  master,  or  any  one  else ; 


riCTIOK — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


27 


he  honestly  scorns  the  ^ carnal  morality*  as  dowd  and  fusion- 
less  as  rue-leaves  at  Yule  ’ of  the  sermon  in  the  upper  cathe- 
dral ; and  when  wrapt  in  critical  attention  to  the  ^ real  savour 
o’  doctrine  ’ in  the  crypt,  so  completely  forgets  the  hypocrisy 
of  his  fair  service  as  to  return  his  master’s  attempt  to  disturb 
him  with  hard  punches  of  the  elbow. 

Thirdly.  He  is  a man  of  no  mean  sagacity,  quite  up  to  the 
average  standard  of  Scottish  common  sense,  not  a low  one; 
and,  though  incapable  of  understanding  any  manner  of  lofty 
thought  or  passion,  is  a shrewd  measurer  of  weaknesses,  and 
not  without  a spark  or  two  of  kindly  feeling.  See  first  his 
sketch  of  his  master’s  character  to  Mr.  Hammorgaw,  begin- 
ning: ^He’s  no  a’thegither  sae  void  o’ sense,  neither ;’  and 
then  the  close  of  the  dialogue : ^ But  the  lad’s  no  a bad  lad 
after  a’,  and  he  needs  some  carefu’  body  to  look  after  him.’ 

Fourthly.  He  is  a good  workman ; knows  his  own  business 
well,  and  can  judge  of  other  craft,  if  sound,  or  otherwise. 

All  these  four  qualities  of  him  must  be  known  before  we 
can  understand  this  single  speech.  Keeping  them  in  mind,  I 
take  it  up,  word  by  word. 

You  observe,  in  the  outset,  Scott  makes  no  attempt  whatever 
to  indicate  accents  or  modes  of  pronunciation  by  changed 
spelling,  unless  the  word  becomes  a quite  definitely  new  and 
scarcely  writeable  one.  The  Scottish  way  of  pronouncing 
‘ James,’  for  instance,  is  entirely  peculiar,  and  extremely 
pleasant  to  the  ear.  But  it  is  so,  just  because  it  does  not 
change  the  word  into  Jeems,  nor  into  Jims,  nor  into  Jawms. 
A modern  writer  of  dialects  would  think  it  amusing  to  use 
one  or  other  of  these  ugly  spellings.  But  Scott  writes  the 
name  in  pure  English,  knowing  that  a Scots  reader  will  speak 
it  rightly,  and  an  English  one  be  wise  in  letting  it  alone.  On 
the  other  hand  he  writes  ^ weel’  for  ‘well,’  because  that  word 
is  complete  in  its  change,  and  may  be  very  closely  expressed 
by  the  double  e.  The  ambiguous  ^^’s  in  ^ gude  ’ and  ^ sune  ’ 


Compare  Mr.  Spurgeon's  not  unfrequent  orations  on  the  same  subject. 


28 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


are  admitted,  because  far  liker  the  sound  than  the  double  o 
would  be,  and  that  in  ^hure,’  for  grace’  sake,  to  soften  the 
word ; — so  also  ^ flaes  ’ for  ^ fleas.’  ^ Mony  ’ for  ‘ many  ’ is 
again  positively  right  in  sound,  and  ^ neuk  ’ differs  from  our 
‘ nook  ’ in  sense,  and  is  not  the  same  word  at  all,  as  we  shall 
presently  see. 

Secondly,  observe,  not  a word  is  corrupted  in  any  indecent 
haste,  slowness,  slovenliness,  or  incapacity  of  pronunciation. 
There  is  no  lisping,  drawling,  slobbering,  or  snuffling : the 
speech  is  as  clear  as  a bell  and  as  keen  as  an  arrow : and  its 
elisions  and  contractions  are  either  melodious,  na,’  for  ^ not,’ 
— ^ pu’d,’  for  ‘ pulled,’)  or  as  normal  as  in  a Latin  verse.  The 
long  words  are  delivered  Vv^ithout  the  slightest  bungling  ; and 
^ bigging  ’ flnished  to  its  last  g. 

I take  the  important  words  now  in  their  places. 

Brave,  The  old  English  sense  of  the  word  in  ^ to  go  brave  ’ 
retained,  expressing  Andrew’s  sincere  and  respectful  admira- 
tion. Had  he  meant  to  insinuate  a hint  of  the  church’s  being 
too  flne,  he  would  have  said  ‘ braw.’ 

Kirh,  This  is  of  course  just  as  pure  and  unprovincial  a 
word  as  ^ Kirche,’  or  ^ eglise.’ 

Whigmaleerie,  I cannot  get  at  the  root  of  this  word,  but 
it  is  one  showing  that  the  speaker  is  not  bound  by  classic 
rules,  but  will  use  any  syllables  that  enrich  his  meaning. 
‘ Nipperty-tipperty  ’ (of  his  master’s  ‘ poetry-nonsense  ’)  is  an- 
other word  of  the  same  class.  ‘ Curliewurlie  ’ is  of  course  just 
as  pure  as  Shakespeare’s  ‘ Hurly-burly.’  But  see  first  sugges- 
tion of  the  idea  to  Scott  at  Blair- Adam  (L.  vi.  264). 

Ojpensteeh  hems.  More  description,  or  better,  of  the  later 
Gothic  cannot  be  put  into  four  syllables.  ^ Steek,’  melodious 
for  stitch,  has  a combined  sense  of  closing  or  fastening.  And 
note  that  the  later  Gothic,  being  precisely  what  Scott  knew 
best  (in  Melrose)  and  liked  best,  it  is,  here  as  elsewhere,  quite 
as  much  himself*  as  Frank,  that  he  is  laughing  at,  when  he 

* There  are  three  definite  and  intentional  portraits  of  himself,  in  the 
novels,  each  giving  a separate  part  of  himself  : Mr.  Oldbuck,  F'rank  Oshal- 
distone,  and  Alan  Fairford. 


FICTION — FAIR  AKD  FOUL. 


29 


laughs  with  Andrew,  whose  ^ opensteek  hems  ’ are  only  a ruder 
metaphor  for  his  own  ^ willow-wreaths  changed  to  stone.’ 

Gunpowther,  ^-Ther’  is  a lingering  vestige  of  the  French 
'-dre.' 

Syne,  One  of  the  melodious  and  mysterious  Scottish  words 
which  have  partly  the  sound  of  wind  and  stream  in  them,  and 
partly  the  range  of  softened  idea  which  is  like  a distance  of 
blue  hills  over  border  land  (^far  in  the  distant  Cheviot’s  blue’). 
Perhaps  even  the  least  sympathetic  ^ Englisher  ’ might  recog- 
nise this,  if  he  heard  ^ Old  Long  Since  ’ vocally  substituted 
for  the  Scottish  words  to  the  air.  I do  not  know  the  root ; 
but  the  word’s  proper  meaning  is  not  ^ since,’  but  before  or 
after  an  interval  of  some  duration,  ^ as  weel  sune  as  syne.’ 

But  first  on  Sawnie  gies  a ca’.  Syne,  bauldly  in  she  enters.’ 

Behoved  {to  come).  A rich  word,  with  peculiar  idiom,  al- 
ways used  more  or  less  ironically  of  anything  done  under  a 
partly  mistaken  and  partly  pretended  notion  of  duty. 

Siccan,  Far  prettier,  and  fuller  in  meaning  than  ^ such.’ 
It  contains  an  added  sense  of  wonder ; and  means  prpperly  ^ so 
great  ’ or  ^ so  unusual.’ 

Tooh  (o’  drum).  Classical  ‘ tuck  ’ from  Italian  ^ toccata,’  the 
preluding  ^ touch  ’ or  fiourish,  on  any  instrument  (but  see 
Johnson  under  word  ‘ tucket,’  quoting  Othello),  The  deeper 
Scottish  vowels  are  used  here  to  mark  the  deeper  sound  of 
the  bass  drum,  as  in  more  solemn  warning. 

Bigging,  The  only  word  in  all  the  sentence  of  which  the 
Scottish  form  is  less  melodious  than  the  English,  ^ and  what 
for  no,’  seeing  that  Scottish  architecture  is  mostly  little  beyond 
Bessie  Bell’s  and  Mary  Gray’s  ? ^ They  biggit  a bow’re  by 

yon  burnside,  and  theekit  it  ow’re  wi  rashes.’  But  it  is  pure 
Anglo-Saxon  in  roots  ; see  glossary  to  Fairbairn’s  edition  of 
the  Douglas  Virgil,^  1710. 

Coup,  Another  of  the  much-embracing  words ; short  for 
^ upset,’  but  with  a sense  of  awkwardness  as  the  inherent 
cause  of  fall ; compare  Richie  Moniplies  (also  for  sense  of 
^ behoved  ’) : ^ Ae  auld  hirplin  deevil  of  a potter  behoved  just 
to  step  in  my  way,  and  offer  me  a pig  (earthen  pot — etyin. 


30 


FIGTIOK — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


dub.),  as  be  said  just  to  put  my  Scotch  ointment  in;’’  and  I 
gave  him  a push,  as  but  natural,  and  the  tottering  deevil 
coupit  owre  amang  his  own  pigs,  and  damaged  a score  of 
them.’  So  also  Dandie  Dinmont  in  the  postchaise : ^ ’Od  ! I 
hope  they’ll  no  coup  us.’ 

The  Crans,  Idiomatic ; root  unknown  to  me,  but  it  means 
in  this  use,  full,  total,  and  without  recovery. 

Molendinar,  From  ^ molendinum,’  the  grinding-place.  I 
do  not  know  if  actually  the  local  name,*  or  Scott’s  invention. 
Compare  Sir  Piercie’s  ^Molinaras.’  But  at  all  events  used 
here  with  bye-sense  of  degradation  of  the  formerly  idle  saints 
to  grind  at  the  mill. 

Crouse,  Courageous,  softened  with  a sense  of  comfort. 

Ilka,  Again  a word  with  azure  distance,  including  the 
whole  sense  of  ^ each  ’ and  ^ every.’  The  reader  must  carefully 
and  reverently  distinguish  these  comprehensive  words,  which 
gather  two  or  more  perfectly  understood  meanings  into  one 
chord  of  meaning,  and  are  harmonies  more  than  words,  from 
the  above-noted  blunders  between  two  half-hit  meanings, 
struck  as  a bad  piano-player  strikes  the  edge  of  another  note. 
In  English  we  have  fewer  of  these  combined  thoughts ; so 
that  Shakespeare  rather  plays  with  the  distinct  lights  of  his 
words,  than  melts  them  into  one.  So  again  Bishop  Douglas 
spells,  and  doubtless  spoke,  the  word  ^ rose,’  differently,  ac- 
cording to  his  purpose ; if  as  the  chief  or  governing  ruler  of 
flowers,  ^ rois,’  but  if  only  in  her  own  beauty,  rose. 

Christia/a-like,  The  sense  of  the  decency  and  order  proper 


* Andrew  knows  Latin,  and  might  have  coined  the  word  in  his  conceit ; 
but,  writing  to  a kind  friend  in  Glasgow,  I find  the  brook  was  called 
‘ Molyndona ' even  before  the  building  of  the  Sub-dean  Mill  in  1446.  See 
also  account  of  the  locality  in  Mr.  George’s  admirable  volume,  Old  Glasgow, 
pp.  129,  149,  &c.  The  Protestantism  of  Glasgow,  since  throwing  that 
powder  of  saints  into  her  brook  Kidron,  has  presented  it  with  other  pious 
offerings  ; and  my  friend  goes  on  to  say  that  the  brook,  once  famed  for  the 
purity  of  its  waters  (much  used  for  bleaching),  ‘ has  for  nearly  a hundred 
years  been  a crawling  stream  of  loathsomeness.  It  is  now  bricked  over,  and 
a carriage-way  made  on  the  top  of  it ; underneath  the  foul  mess  still  passes 
thrcr.gh  the  heart  of  the  city,  till  it  falls  into  the  Clyde  close  to  the  harbour.  ’ 


FICTION’ — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


31 


to  Christianity  Js  stronger  in  Scotland  than  in  any  other  coun- 
try, and  the  word  ‘ Christian  ’ more  distinctly  opposed  to 
‘ beast.’  Hence  the  back-handed  cut  at  the  English  for  their 
over-pious  care  of  dogs. 

I am  a little  surprised  myself  at  the  length  to  which  this 
examination  of  one  small  piece  of  Sir  Walter’s  first-rate  work 
has  carried  us,  but  here  I must  end  for  this  time,  trusting,  if 
the  Editor  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  permit  me,  yet  to  tres- 
pass, perhaps  more  than  once,  on  his  readers’  patience ; but, 
at  all  events,  to  examine  in  a following  paper  the  technical 
characteristics  of  Scott’s  own  style,  both  in  prose  and  verse, 
together  with  Byron’s,  as  opposed  to  our  fashionably  recent 
dialects  and  rhythms  ; the  essential  virtues  of  language,  in  both 
the  masters  of  the  old  school,  hinging  ultimately,  little  as  it 
might  be  thought,  on  certain  unalterable  views  of  theirs  con- 
cerning the  code  called  ^ of  the  Ten  Commandments,’  wholly 
at  variance  with  the  dogmas  of  automatic  morality  which, 
summed  again  by  the  witches’  line,  ^ Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is 
fair,’  hover  through  the  fog  and  filthy  air  of  our  prosperous 
England. 

John  Buskin. 

‘He  hated  greetings  in  the  market-place^  and  there  were 
generally  loiterers  in  the  streets  to  persecute  him  either  about 
the  events  of  the  day^  or  about  some  petty  pieces  of  business.’ 

These  lines,  which  the  reader  will  find  near  the  beginning 
of  the  sixteenth  chapter  of  the  first  volume  of  the  Antiquary^ 
contain  two  indications  of  the  old  man’s  character,  which,  re- 
ceiving the  ideal  of  him  as  a portrait  of  Scott  himself,  are  of 
extreme  interest  to  me.  They  mean  essentially  that  neither 
Monkbarns  nor  Scott  had  any  mind  to  be  called  of  men,  Eab- 
bi,  in  mere  hearing  of  the  mob ; and  especially  that  they  hated 
to  be  drawn  back  out  of  their  far-away  thoughts,  or  forward 
out  of  their  long-ago  thoughts,  by  any  manner  of  ‘ daily  ’ 
news,  whether  printed  or  gabbled.  Of  which  two  vital  char- 
acteristics, deeper  in  both  the  men,  (for  I must  always  speak 
of  Scott’s  creations  as  if  they  were  as  real  as  himself,)  than  any 


32 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


of  their  superficial  vauities,  or  passing  enthusiasms,  I have  to 
speak  more  at  another  time.  I quote  the  passage  just  now, 
because  there  was  one  piece  of  the  daily  news  of  the  year  1815 
wliich  did  extremely  interest  Scott,  and  materially  direct  the 
labour  of  the  latter  part  of  his  life ; nor  is  there  any  piece  of 
history  in  this  whole  nineteenth  century  quite  so  pregnant 
with  various  instruction  as  the  study  of  the  reasons  which  in- 
fluenced Scott  and  Byron  in  their  opposite  views  of  the  glories 
^ of  the  battle  of  Waterloo. 

But  I quote  it  for  another  reason  also.  The  principal  greet- 
ing which  Mr.  Oldbuck  on  this  occasion  receives  in  the  mar- 
ket-place, being  compared  with  the  speech  of  Andrew  Fairser- 
vice,  examined  in  my  first  paper,  will  furnish  me  with  the  text 
of  what  I have  mainly  to  say  in  the  present  one. 

^ “ Mr.  Oldbuck,’’  said  the  town-clerk  (a  more  important 
person,  who  came  in  front  and  ventured  to  stop  the  old  gentle- 
man), the  provost,  understanding  you  were  in  town,  begs  on 
no  account  that  you’ll  quit  it  without  seeing  him  ; he  wants  to 
speak  to  ye  about  bringing  the  water  frae  the  Fairwell  spring 
through  a part  o’  your  lands.” 

^ What  the  deuce  ! — have  they  nobody’s  land  but  mine  to 
cut  and  carve  on  ? — I won’t  consent,  tell  them.” 

‘ And  the  provost,”  said  the  clerk,  going  on,  without  notic- 
ing the  rebuff,  ^^and  the  council,  wad  be  agreeable  that  you 
<ihould  hae  the  auld  stanes  at  Donagild’s  Chapel,  that  ye  was 
Wussing  to  hae.” 

^^^Eh? — what  ?— Oho  ! that’s  another  story — Well,  well. 
I’ll  call  upon  the  provost,  and  we’ll  talk  about  it.” 

‘ ‘^But  ye  maun  speak  your  mind  on’t  forthwith,  Monkbarns, 
if  ye  want  the  stanes ; for  Deacon  Harlewalls  thinks  the 
carved  through-stanes  might  be  put  with  advantage  on  the 
front  of  the  new  council-house — that  is,  the  twa  cross-legged 
figures  that  the  callants  used  to  ca’  Robin  and  Bobbin,  ane 
on  ilka  door-cheek ; and  the  other  stane,  that  they  ca’d  Ailie 
Dailie,  abune  the  door.  ‘ It  will  be  very  tastefu’,  the  Deacon 
says,  and  just  in  the  style  of  modern  Gothic.” 

‘ “ Good  Lord  deliver  me  from  this  Gothic  generation !” 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


33 


exclaimed  the  Antiquary, — “ a monument  of  a knight-templar 
on  each  side  of  a Grecian  porch,  and  a Madonna  on  the  top  of 
it! — 0 crimini! — Well,  tell  the  provost  I wish  to  have  the 
stones,  and  wedl  not  differ  about  the  water-course. — It’s  lucky 
I happened  to  come  this  way  to-day.” 

‘ They  parted  mutually  satisfied ; but  the  wily  clerk  had 
most  reason  to  exult  in  the  dexterity  he  had  displayed,  since 
the  whole  proposal  of  an  exchange  between  the  monuments 
(which  the  council  had  determined  to  remove  as  a nuisance, 
because  they  encroached  three  feet  upon  the  public  road)  and 
the  privilege  of  conveying  the  water  to  the  burgh,  through  the 
estate  of  Monkbarns,  was  an  idea  which  had  originated  with 
himself  upon  the  pressure  of  the  moment.’ 

In  this  single  page  of  Scott,  will  the  reader  please  note  the 
kind  of  prophetic  instinct  with  which  the  great  men  of  every 
age  mark  and  forecast  its  destinies  ? The  water  from  the  Fair- 
well  is  the  future  Thirlmere  carried  to  Manchester  ; the  ^ auld 
stanes’  * at  Donagild’s  Chapel,  removed  as  nuisance^  foretell 


* The  following  fragments  out  of  the  letters  in  my  own  possession,  writ- 
ten by  Seott  to  the  builder  of  Abbotsford,  as  the  outer  decorations  of  the  house 
were  in  process  of  completion,  will  show  how  accurately  Scott  had  pictured 
himself  in  Monkbarns. 

‘ Abbotsford  : April  21,  1817. 

‘ Dear  Sir, — Nothing  can  be  more  obliging  than  your  attention  to  the  old 
stones.  You  have  been  as  true  as  the  sundial  itself.'  [The  sundial  had  just 
been  erected.]  ‘ Of  the  two  I would  prefer  the  larger  one,  as  it  is  to  be  in 
front  of  a parapet  quite  in  the  old  taste.  But  in  case  of  accidents  it  will  be 
safest  in  your  custody  till  I come  to  town  again  on  the  12th  of  May.  Your 
former  favours  (which  were  weighty  as  acceptable)  have  come  safely  out 
here,  and  will  be  disposed  of  with  great  effect.' 

' Abbotsford  : July  30. 

‘ I fancy  the  Tolbooth  still  keeps  its  feet,  but,  as  it  must  soon  descend,  I 
hope  you  will  remember  me.  I have  an  important  use  for  the  niche  above 
the  door  ; and  though  many  a man  has  got  a niche  in  the  Tolbooth  by  build- 
ing, I believe  I am  the  first  that  ever  got  a niche  out  of  it  on  such  an  occa- 
sion. For  which  I have  to  thank  your  kindness,  and  to  remain  very  much 
your  obliged  humble  servant,  Walter  Scott.' 

' August  16. 

‘ My  dear  Sir, — I trouble  you  with  this  [sic]  few  lines  to  thank  you  for  the 
very  accurate  drawings  and  measurements  of  the  Tolbooth  door,  and  for 
3 


34 


FICTION — FAIE  AND  FOUL. 


the  necessary  view  taken  by  modern  cockneyism,  Liberalism, 
and  progress,  of  all  things  that  remind  them  of  the  noble 
dead,  of  their  father’s  fame,  or  of  their  own  duty ; and  the 
public  road  becomes  their  idol,  instead  of  the  saint’s  shrine. 
Finally,  the  roguery  of  the  entire  transaction — the  mean  man 
seeing  the  weakness  of  the  honourable,  and  ^ besting  ’ him — 
in  modern  slang,  in  the  manner  and  at  the  pace  of  modern 
trade — ^ on  the  pressure  of  the  moment.’ 

But  neither  are  these  things  what  I have  at  present  quoted 
the  passage  for. 

I quote  it,  that  we  may  consider  how  much  wonderful  and 
various  history  is  gathered  in  the  fact,  recorded  for  us  in  this 
piece  of  entirely  fair  fiction,  that  in  the  Scottish  borough  of 
Fairport,  (Montrose,  really,)  in  the  year  17 — of  Christ,  the 
knowledge  given  by  the  pastors  and  teachers  provided  for 
its  children  by  enlightened  Scottish  Protestantism,  of  their 
fathers’  history,  and  the  origin  of  their  religion,  had  resulted 


your  kind  promise  to  attend  to  my  interest  and  tkat  of  Abbotsford  in  the 
matter  of  the  Thistle  and  Fleur  de  Lis.  Most  of  our  scutcheons  are  now 
mounted,  and  look  very  well,  as  the  house  is  something  after  the  model  of 
an  old  hall  (not  a castle),  where  such  things  are  well  in  character.'  [Alas — 
Sir  Walter,  Sir  Walter  !]  ‘ I intend  the  old  lion  to  predominate  over  a well 

which  the  children  have  christened  the  Fountain  of  the  Lions.  His  present 
den,  however,  continues  to  be  the  hall  at  Castle  Street. ' 

‘ September  5. 

‘ Dear  Sir,— I am  greatly  obliged  to  you  for  securing  the  stone.  I am  not 
sure  that  I will  put  up  the  gate  quite  in  the  old  form,  but  I would  like  to 
secure  the  means  of  doing  so.  The  ornamental  stones  are  now  put  up,  and 
have  a very  happy  effect.  If  you  will  have  the  kindness  to  let  me  know 
when  the  Tolbooth  door  comes  down,  I will  send  in  my  carts  for  the  stones  ; 
I have  an  admirable  situation  for  it.  I suppose  the  door  itself  ’ [he  means, 
the  wooden  one]  ' will  be  kept  for  the  new  jail  ; if  not,  and  not  otherwise 
wanted,  I would  esteem  it  curious  to  possess  it.  Certainly  I hope  so  many 
sore  hearts  will  not  pass  through  the  celebrated  door  when  in  my  possession 
as  heretofore.' 

' September  8. 

‘ I should  esteem  it  very  fortunate  if  I could  have  the  door  also,  though  I 
suppose  it  is  modem,  having  been  burned  down  at  the  time  of  Porteous-mob. 

‘ I am  very  much  obliged  to  the  gentlemen  who  thought  these  remains  of 
the  Heart  of  Midlothian  are  not  ill  bestowed  on  their  intended  possessor.' 


FICTION — FAIR  Al^J)  FOUL. 


35 


in  this  substance  and  sum  ; — that  the  statues  of  two  crusading 
knights  had  become,  to  their  children,  Robin  and  Bobbin  ; 
and  the  statue  of  the  Madonna,  Ailie  Dailie. 

A marvellous  piece  of  history,  truly  : and  far  too  compre- 
hensive for  general  comment  here.  Only  one  small  piece  of 
it  I must  carry  forward  the  readers’  thoughts  upon. 

The  pastors  and  teachers  aforesaid,  (represented  typically  in 
another  part  of  this  errorless  book  by  Mr.  Blattergowl)  are 
not,  whatever  else  they  may  have  to  answer  for,  answerable 
for  these  names.  The  names  are  of  the  children’s  own  choos- 
ing and  bestowing,  but  not  of  the  children’s  own  inventing. 

^ Robin  ’ is  a classically  endearing  cognomen,  recording  the 
errcmt  heroism  of  old  days — the  name  of  the  Bruce  and  of 
Rob  Roy.  ^ Bobbin  ’ is  a poetical  and  symmetrical  fulfilment 
and  adornment  of  the  original  phrase.  ^ Ailie  ’ is  the  last 
echo  of  ‘ Ave,’  changed  into  the  softest  Scottish  Christian 
name  familiar  to  the  children,  itself  the  beautiful  feminine 
form  of  royal  ‘ Louis  ; ’ the  ‘ Dailie  ’ again  symmetrically  added 
for  kinder  and  more  musical  endearment.  The  last  vestiges, 
you  see,  of  honour  for  the  heroism  and  religion  of  their  ances- 
tors, lingering  on  the  lips  of  babes  and  sucklings. 

But  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  necessity  the  children  find 
themselves  under  of  completing  the  nomenclature  rhythmi- 
cally and  rhyminglv  ? Note  first  the  difference  carefully,  and 
the  attainment  of  both  qualities  by  the  couplets  in  question. 
Rhythm  is  the  syllabic  and  quantitative  measure  of  the  words, 
in  which  Robin,  both  in  weight  and  time,  balances  Bobbin; 
and  Dailie  holds  level  scale  with  Ailie.  But  rhyme  is  the 
added  correspondence  of  sound ; unknown  and  undesired,  so 
far  as  we  can  learn,  by  the  Greek  Orpheus,  but  absolutely 
essential  to,  and,  as  special  virtue,  becoming  titular  of,  the 
Scottish  Thomas. 

The  ^ Ryme,’  you  may  at  first  fancy,  is  the  especially  - 
childish  part  of  the  work.  Not  so.  It  is  the  especially  chiv- 
alric  and  Christian  part  of  it.  It  characterises  the  Christian 


* Henceforward,  not  in  affectation,  but  for  the  reader’s  better  convenience, 
1 shall  continue  to  spell  ‘ Ryme  ’ without  our  wrongly  adde  J h. 


36 


FICTIOi^ — FAIR  AFTD  FOUL. 


chant  or  canticle,  as  a higher  thing  than  a Greek  ode,  melos, 
or  hymnos,  or  than  a Latin  carmen. 

Think  of  it,  for  this  again  is  wonderful ! That  these  chil- 
dren of  Montrose  should  have  an  element  of  music  in  their 
souls  which  Homer  had  not, — which  a melos  of  David  the 
Prophet  and  King  had  not, — which  Orpheus  and  Amphion 
had  not, — which  Apollo’s  unrymed  oracles  became  mute  at 
the  sound  of. 

A strange  new  equity  this, — melodious  justice  and  judg- 
ment as  it  were, — in  all  words  spoken  solemnly  and  ritualis- 
tically  by  Christian  human  creatures  ; — Robin  and  Bobbin — 
by  the  Crusader’s  tomb,  up  to  ^ Dies  irse,  dies  ilia,’  at  judg- 
ment of  the  crusading  soul. 

You  have  to  understand  this  most  deeply  of  all  Christian 
minstrels,  from  first  to  last ; that  they  are  more  musical,  be- 
cause more  joyful,  than  any  others  on  earth  : ethereal  min- 
strels, pilgrims  of  the  sky,  true  to  the  kindred  points  of 
heaven  and  home ; their  joy  essentially  the  sky-lark’s,  in 
light,  in  purity ; but,  with  their  human  eyes,  looking  for  the 
glorious  appearing  of  something  in  the  sky,  which  the  bird 
cannot. 

This  it  is  that  changes  Etruscan  murmur  into  Terza  rima — 
Horatian  Latin  into  Provengal  troubadour’s  melody  ; not,  be- 
cause less  artful,  less  wise. 

Here  is  a little  bit,  for  instance,  of  French  ryming  just 
before  Chaucer’s  time — near  enough  to  our  own  French  to  be 
intelligible  to  us  yet. 

* O quant  tres-glorieuse  vie, 

Quant  cil  quit  out  peut  et  maistrie, 

Veult  osprouver  pour  necessaire, 

Ne  pour  quant  il  ne  blasma  mie 
La  vie  de  Martlie  sa  mie  : 

Mais  il  lui  donna  exemplaire 
D’autrement  vivre,  et  de  bien  plaire 
A Dieu  ; et  plut  de  bien  a faire  : 

Pour  se  conclut  il  que  Marie 
Qui  estoit  a ses  piedz  sans  braire, 

Et  pensaitd  entendre  et  de  taire, 

Estleut  la  plus  saine  partie. 


FICTIO]^ — FAIK  AKD  FOUL. 


37 


La  meilleur  partie  esleut-elle 
Et  la  plus  saine  et  la  plus  belle, 

Qui  ja  ne  luy  sera  ostee 

Car  par  verite  se  fut  celle 

Qui  fut  tousjours  fresche  et  nouvelle, 

D'aymer  Dieu  et  d’en  estre  aymee  ; 

Car  jusqu’au  cueur  fut  entamee 
Et  si  ardamment  enflamee, 

Que  tous-jours  ardoit  I’estincelle  ; 

Par  quoi  elle  fut  visitee 
Et  de  Dieu  premier  comfortee  ; 

Car  cbarite  est  trop  ysnelle.’ 

The  only  law  of  metre^  observed  in  this  song,  is  that  each 
line  shall  be  octosyllabic  : 

Qui  fut  I tousjours  | frescbe  et  | nouvelle, 

D’autre  | ment  vi  | vret  de  | bien  (ben)  plaire. 

Et  pen  I soit  den  | tendret  | de  taire 

But  the  reader  must  note  that  words  which  were  two-syllabled 
in  Latin  mostly  remain  yet  so  in  the  French. 

La  m I 6 de  I Marthe  | sa  mie, 

although  mie^  which  is  pet  language,  loving  abbreviation  of 
arnica  through  amie^  remains  monosyllabic.  But  vie  elides  its 
e before  a vowel : 

Car  Mar-  | the  me  | nait  vie  | active 
Et  Ma-  1 ri-e  1 contemp  | lative ; 

and  custom  endures  many  exceptions.  Thus  Marie  may  be 
three-syllabled  as  above,  or  answer  to  mie  as  a dissyllable; 
but  vierge  is  always,  I think,  dissyllabic,  vier-ge^  with  even 
stronger  accent  on  the  -ge^  for  the  Latin  -go. 

Then,  secondly,  of  quantity,  there  is  scarcely  any  fixed  law. 
The  metres  may  be  timed  as  the  minstrel  chooses — fast  or 
slow — and  the  iambic  current  checked  in  reverted  eddy,  as 
the  words  chance  to  come. 

But,  thirdly,  there  is  to  be  rich  ryming  and  chiming,  no 
matter  how  simply  got,  so  only  that  the  words  jingle  and 
tingle  together  with  due  art  of  interlacing  and  answering  in 


38 


FICTIOK — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


different  parts  of  the  stanza,  correspondent  to  the  involutions 
of  tracery  and  illumination.  The  whole  twelve-line  stanza 
is  thus  constructed  with  two  rymes  only,  six  of  each,  thus 
arranged : 

AAB  I AAB  I BBA  | BBA  | 

dividing  the  verse  thus  into  four  measures,  reversed  in  ascent 
and  descent,  or  descant  more  properly;  and  doubtless  with 
correspondent  phases  in  the  voice-given,  and  duly  accompany- 
ing, or  following,  music ; Thomas  the  Eymer’s  own  precept, 
that  ^tong  is  chefe  in  mynstrelsye,’  being  always  kept  faith- 
fully in  mind."^ 

Here  then  you  have  a sufficient  example  of  the  pure  chant 
of  the  Christian  ages  ; which  is  always  at  heart  joyful,  and 
divides  itself  into  the  four  great  forms.  Song  of  Praise,  Song 
of  Prayer,  Song  of  Love,  and  Song  of  Battle  ; praise,  however, 
being  the  keynote  of  passion  through  all  the  four  forms  ; ac- 
cording to  the  first  law  which  I have  already  given  in  the  laws 
of  Fesole  ; ^ all  great  Art  is  Praise,’  of  which  the  contrary  is 
also  true,  all  foul  or  miscreant  Art  is  accusation,  dia^o\r}\ 

‘ She  gave  me  of  the  tree  and  I did  eat  ’ being  an  entirely 
museless  expression  on  Adam’s  part,  the  briefiy  essential  con- 
trary of  Love-song. 

With  these  four  perfect  forms  of  Christian  chant,  of  which 
we  may  take  for  pure  examples  the  ‘ Te  Deum,’  the  ^ Te  Lucis 
Ante,’  the  ^ Amor  che  nella  mente,’  f and  the  ^ Chant  de 
Roland,’  are  mingled  songs  of  mourning,  of  Pagan  origin 
(whether  Greek  or  Danish),  holding  grasp  still  of  the  races 
that  have  once  learned  them,  in  times  of  suffering  and  sorrow  ; 
and  songs  of  Christian  humiliation  or  grief,  regarding  chiefiy 

*L.  ii.  278. 

f ‘ Che  nella  mente  mia  mgiona'  Love — ^you  observe,  the  highest 
EeasonablenesSy  instead  of  French  iwesse,  or  even  Shakespearian  ‘mere 
folly  ’ ; and  Beatrice  as  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom  in  this  third  song  of  the 
ConvitOy  to  be  compared  with  the  Ke volutionary  Goddess  of  Reason; 
remembering  of  the  whole  poem  chiefly  the  line  : — 

‘ Costei  penso  chi  che  mosso  I’uni verso.’ 

(See  Lyeirs  Canzonierey  p.  104.) 


FICTIOi^^ — FAIR  AKD  FOUL. 


39 


the  sufferings  of  Christ,  or  the  conditions  of  our  own  sin  : 
while  through  the  entire  system  of  these  musical  complaints 
are  interwoven  moralities,  instructions,  and  related  histories, 
in  illustration  of  both,  passing  into  Epic  and  Romantic  verse, 
which  gradually,  as  the  forms  and  learnings  of  society  in- 
crease, becomes  less  joyful,  and  more  didactic,  or  satiric,  until 
the  last  echoes  of  Christian  joy  and  melody  vanish  in  the 
^ Vanity  of  human  wishes.’ 

And  here  I must  pause  for  a minute  or  two  to  separate  the 
different  branches  of  our  inquiry  clearly  from  one  another. 
For  one  thing,  the  reader  must  please  put  for  the  present  out 
of  his  head  all  thought  of  the  progress  of  ^civilisation’ — that 
is  to  say,  broadly,  of  the  substitution  of  wigs  for  hair,  gas  for 
candles,  and  steam  for  legs.  This  is  an  entirely  distinct  mat- 
ter from  the  phases  of  policy  and  religion.  It  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  British  Constitution,  or  the  French  Revolution, 
or  the  unification  of  Italy.  There  are,  indeed,  certain  subtle 
relations  between  the  state  of  mind,  for  instance,  in  Venice, 
which  makes  her  prefer  a steamer  to  a gondola,  and  that 
which  makes  her  prefer  a gazetteer  to  a duke ; but  these  re- 
lations are  not  at  all  to  be  dealt  with  until  we  solemnly  under- 
stand that  whether  men  shall  be  Christians  and  poets,  or 
infidels  and  dunces,  does  not  depend  on  the  way  they  cut 
their  hair,  tie  their  breeches,  or  light  their  fires.  Dr.  John- 
son might  have  worn  his  wig  in  fulness  conforming  to  his 
dignity,  without  therefore  coming  to  the  conclusion  that 
human  wishes  were  vain ; nor  is  Queen  Antoinette’s  civilised 
hair-powder,  as  opposed  to  Queen  Bertha’s  savagely  loose 
hair,  the  cause  of  Antoinette’s  laying  her  head  at  last  in  scaf- 
fold dust,  but  Bertha  in  a pilgrim-haunted  tomb. 

Again,  I have  just  now  used  the  words  ^ poet  ’ and  ^ dunce,’ 
meaning  the  degree  of  each  quality  possible  to  average  human 
nature.  Men  are  eternally  divided  into  the  two  classes  of  poet 
(believer,  maker,  and  praiser)  and  dunce  (or  unbeliever,  un- 
maker,  and  dispraiser).  And  in  process  of  ages  they  have  the 
power  of  making  faithful  and  formative  creatures  of  them- 
selves, or  unfaithful  and  ^j^rformative.  And  this  distinction 


40 


FICTIOK — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


between  the  creatures  who,  blessing,  are  blessed,  and  evermore 
henedicti^  and  the  creatures  who,  cursing,  are  cursed,  and  ever- 
more maledicti^  is  one  going  through  all  humanity;  antedi- 
luvian in  Cain  and  Abel,  diluvian  in  Ham  and  Shem.  And 
the  question  for  the  public  of  any  given  period  is  not  whether 
they  are  a constitutional  or  unconstitutional  vulgus,  but 
whether  they  are  a benignant  or  malignant  vulgus.  So  also, 
whether  it  is  indeed  the  gods  who  have  given  any  gentleman 
the  grace  to  despise  the  rabble,  depends  wholly  on  whether  it 
is  indeed  the  rabble,  or  he,  who  are  the  malignant  persons. 

But  yet  again.  This  difference  between  the  persons  to 
whom  Heaven,  according  to  Orpheus,  has  granted  ^ the  hour 
of  delight,’  ^ and  those  whom  it  has  condemned  to  the  hour 
of  detestableness,  being,  as  I have  just  said,  of  all  times  and 
nations, — it  is  an  interior  and  more  delicate  difference  which 
we  are  examining  in  the  gift  of  Christian ^ as  distinguished 
from  unchristian,  song.  Orpheus,  Pindar,  and  Horace  are 
indeed  distinct  from  the  prosaic  rabble,  as  the  bird  from  the 
snake ; but  between  Orpheus  and  Palestrina,  Horace  and 
Sidney,  there  is  another  division,  and  a new  power  of  music 
and  song  given  to  the  humanity  which  has  hope  of  the  Resur- 
rection. 

This  is  the  root  of  all  life  and  all  righteousness  in  Christian 
harmony,  whether  of  word  or  instrument;  and  so  literally, 
that  in  precise  manner  as  this  hope  disappears,  the  power  of 
song  is  taken  away,  and  taken  away  utterly.  When  the  Chris- 
tian falls  back  out  of  the  bright  hope  of  the  Resurrection,  even 
the  Orpheus  song  is  forbidden  him.  Not  to  have  known  the 
hope  is  blameless ; one  may  sing,  unknowing,  as  the  swan,  or 
Philomela.  But  to  have  known  and  fall  away  from  it,  and  to 
declare  that  the  human  wishes,  which  are  summed  in  that  one 
— ^ Thy  kingdom  come’ — are  vain!  The  Fates  ordain  there 
shall  be  no  singing  after  that  denial. 

For  observe  this,  and  earnestly.  The  old  Orphic  song,  with 


* (Spav  — Plato,  Laws,  ii.,  StepL.  669.  ‘Hour  ’ having  here 

nearly  the  power  of  ‘ Fate  ’ with  added  sense  of  being  a daughter  of  Themis. 


EICTIOK — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


41 


its  dim  hope  of  yet  once  more  Eurydice, — the  Philomela  song 
— granted  after  the  cruel  silence, — the  Halcyon  song — with 
its  fifteen  days  of  peace,  were  all  sad,  or  joyful  only  in  some 
vague  vision  of  conquest  over  death.  But  the  Johnsonian 
vanity  of  wishes  is  on  the  whole  satisfactory  to  Johnson — 
accepted  with  gentlemanly  resignation  by  Pope — triumphantly 
and  with  bray  of  penny  trumpets  and  blowing  of  steam- 
whistles,  proclaimed  for  the  glorious  discovery  of  the  civilised 
ages,  by  Mrs.  Barbauld,  Miss  Edgeworth,  Adam  Smith,  and 
Co.  There  is  no  God,  but  have  we  not  invented  gunpowder  ? 
— who  wants  a God,  with  that  in  his  pocket  ? There  is  no 
Resurrection,  neither  angel  nor  spirit ; but  have  we  not  paper 
and  pens,  and  cannot  every  blockhead  print  his  opinions,  and 
the  Day  of  Judgment  become  Republican,  with  everybody  for 
a judge,  and  the  fiat  of  the  universe  for  the  throne  ? There  is 
no  law,  but  only  gravitation  and  congelation,  and  we  are  stuck 
together  in  an  everlasting  hail,  and  melted  together  in  ever- 
lasting mud,  and  great  was  the  day  in  which  our  worships 
were  born.  And  there  is  no  Gospel,  but  only,  whatever  we’ve 
got,  to  get  more,  and  wherever  we  are,  to  go  somewhere  else. 
And  are  not  these  discoveries,  to  be  sung  of,  and  drummed  of, 
and  fiddled  of,  and  generally  made  melodiously  indubitable  in 
the  eighteenth  century  song  of  praise  ? 

The  Fates  will  not  have  it  so.  No  word  of  song  is  possible, 
in  that  century,  to  mortal  lips.  Only  polished  versification, 
sententious  pentameter  and  hexameter,  until,  having  turned 


* ‘ Gunpowder  is  one  of  the  greatest  inventions  of  modern  times,  and 
what  has  given  such  a superiority  to  civilised  nations  over  larharous '!  {Even- 
ings at  Home— Mth.  evening.)  No  man  can  owe  more  than  I both  to  Mrs. 
Barbauld  and  Miss  Edgeworth ; and  I only  wish  that  in  the  substance  of 
what  they  wisely  said,  they  had  been  more  listened  to.  Nevertheless,  the 
germs  of  all  modern  conceit  and  error  respecting  manufacture  and  industry, 
as  rivals  to  Art  and  to  Genius,  are  concentrated  in  ‘ Evenings  at  Home ' and 
‘ Harry  and  Lucy  ’ — being  all  the  while  themselves  works  of  real  genius, 
and  prophetic  of  things  that  have  yet  to  be  learned  and  fulfilled.  See  for 
instance  the  paper,  ‘ Things  by  their  Right  Names,'  following  the  one  from 
which  I have  just  quoted  (The  Ship),  and  closing  the  first  volume  of  the  old 
edition  of  the  Evenings^ 


42 


FICTIO^^- — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


out  its  toes  long  enough  without  dancing,  and  pattered  with 
its  lips  long  enough  without  piping,  suddenly  Astrsea  returns 
to  the  earth,  and  a Day  of  Judgment  of  a sort,  and  there  bursts 
out  a song  at  last  again,  a most  curtly  melodious  triplet  of 
Amphisbsenic  ryme.  ^ Qa  ira^ 

Amphisbsenic,  fanged  in  each  ryme  with  fire,  and  obeying 
Ercildoune’s  precept,  ^ Tong  is  chefe  of  mynstrelsye,’  to  the 
syllable. — Don  Giovanni’s  hitherto  fondly  chanted  ^ Andiam, 
andiarn,’  become  suddenly  impersonal  and  prophetic : It  shall 
go,  and  you  also.  A cry — before  it  is  a song,  then  song  and 
accompaniment  together — perfectly  done;  and  the  march  Ho- 
wards the  field  of  Mars.  The  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
— they  to  the  sound  of  stringed  music — preceded  by  young 
girls  with  tricolor  streamers,  they  have  shouldered  soldier- 
wise  their  shovels  and  picks,  and  with  one  throat  are  singing 
Qa  ira^ 

Through  all  the  springtime  of  1790,  ^ from  Brittany  to  Bur- 
gundy, on  most  plains  of  France,  under  most  city  walls,  there 
march  and  constitutionally  wheel  to  the  Qa-iraing  mood  of 
fife  and  drum — our  clear  glancing  phalanxes ; — the  song  of 
the  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand,  virgin  led,  is  in  the  long 
light  of  July.’  Nevertheless,  another  song  is  yet  needed,  for 
phalanx,  and  for  maid.  For,  two  springs  and  summers  having 
gone — amphisbaenic, — on  the  28th  of  August  1792,  ^Dumou- 
riez  rode  from  the  camp  of  Maulde,  eastwards  to  Sedan^\ 

And  Longwi  has  fallen  basely,  and  Brunswick  and  the 
Prussian  king  will  beleaguer  Yerdun,  and  Clairfait  and  the 
Austrians  press  deeper  in  over  the  northern  marches,  Cimme- 
rian Europe  behind.  And  on  that  same  night  Dumouriez  as- 
sembles council  of  war  at  his  lodgings  in  Sedan.  Prussians 
here,  Austrians  there,  triumphant  both.  With  broad  highway 
to  Paris  and  little  hindrance — we  scattered,  helpless  here  and 
there — what  to  advise?  The  generals  advise  retreating,  and 
retreating  till  Paris  be  sacked  at  the  latest  day  possible. 

* Carlyle,  French  Eewlution  (Chapman,  1869),  vol.  ii.  p.  70;  conf.  p.  25, 
and  the  (^a  ira  at  Arras,  vol.  iii.  p.  276. 

t Ibid.  iii.  26. 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


43 


Dumonriez,  silent,  dismisses  them^ — keeps  only,  with  a sign, 
Thonvenot.  Silent,  thus,  when  needful,  yet  having  voice,  it 
appears,  of  what  musicians  call  tenor-quality,  of  a rare  kind. 
Eubini-esque,  even,  but  scarcely  producible  to  fastidious  ears 
at  opera.  The  seizure  of  the  forest  of  Argonne  follows — the 
cannonade  of  Yalmy.  The  Prussians  do  not  march  on  Paris 
this  time,  the  autumnal  hours  of  fate  pass  on — ga  ira — and  on 
the  6th  of  November,  Dumouriez  meets  the  Austrians  also. 
^ Dumouriez  wide- winged,  they  wide- winged — at  and  around 
Jemappes,  its  green  heights  fringed  and  maned  with  red  fire. 
And  Dumouriez  is  swept  back  on  this  wing  and  swept  back 
on  that,  and  is  like  to  be  swept  back  utterly,  when  he  rushes 
up  in  person,  speaks  a prompt  word  or  two,  and  then,  with 
clear  tenor-pipe,  uplifts  the  hymn  of  the  Marseillaise,  ten 
thousand  tenor  or  bass  pipes  joining,  or  say  some  forty  thou- 
sand in  all,  for  every  heart  leaps  up  at  the  sound  ; and  so,  with 
rhythmic  march  melody,  they  rally,  they  advance,  they  rush 
death-defying,  and  like  the  fire  whirlwind  sweep  all  manner 
of  Austrians  from  the  scene  of  action.’  Thus,  through  the  lips 
of  Dumouriez,  sings  Tyrtseus,  Eouget  de  Lisle,*  ‘ Aux  armes 
— marchons!’  lambic  measure  with  a witness!  in  what  wide 
strophe  here  beginning — in  what  unthought-of  antistrophe 
returning  to  that  council  chamber  in  Sedan  1 

While  these  two  great  songs  were  thus  being  composed, 
and  sung,  and  danced  to  in  cometary  cycle,  by  the  French  na- 
tion, here  in  our  less  giddy  island  there  rose,  amidst  hours  of 
business  in  Scotland  and  of  idleness  in  England,  three  trouba- 
dours of  quite  different  temper.  Different  also  themselves, 
but  not  opponent ; forming  a perfect  chord,  and  adverse  all  the 
three  of  them  alike  to  the  French  musicians,  in  this  main  point 
— that  while  the  Qa  ira  and  Marseillaise  were  essentially  songs 
of  blame  and  wrath,  the  British  bards  wrote,  virtually,  always 
songs  of  praise,  though  by  no  means  psalmody  in  the  ancient 
keys.  On  the  contrary,  all  the  three  are  alike  moved  by  a 


* Carlyle,  French  Revolution,  iii.  106^  the  last  sentence  altered  in  a word 
or  two. 


44 


EICTIOi^' — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


singular  antipathy  to  the  priests,  and  are  pointed  at  with  fear 
and  indignation  by  the  pietists,  of  their  day ; — not  without 
latent  cause.  For  they  are  all  of  them,  with  the  most  loving 
service,  servants  of  that  world  which  the  Puritan  and  monk 
alike  despised ; and,  in  the  triple  chord  of  their  song,  could  not 
but  appear  to  the  religious  persons  around  them  as  respectively 
and  specifically  the  praisers — Scott  of  the  world.  Burns  of  the 
fiesh,  and  Byron  of  the  devil. 

To  contend  with  this  carnal  orchestra,  the  religious  world, 
having  long  ago  rejected  its  Catholic  Psalms  as  antiquated  and 
unscientific,  and  finding  its  Puritan  melodies  sunk  into  faint  jar 
and  twangle  from  their  native  trumpet-tone,  had  nothing  to 
oppose  but  the  innocent,  rather  than  religious,  verses  of  the 
school  recognised  as  that  of  the  English  Lakes  ; very  credita- 
ble to  them  ; domestic  at  once  and  refined  ; observing  the  er- 
rors of  the  world  outside  of  the  Lakes  with  a pitying  and  tender 
indignation,  and  arriving  in  lacustrine  seclusion  at  many  val- 
uable principles  of  philosophy,  as  pure  as  the  tarns  of  their 
mountains,  and  of  corresponding  depth.* 

I have  lately  seen,  and  with  extreme  pleasure,  Mr.  Matthew 
Arnold’s  arrangement  of  Wordsworth’s  poems;  and  read  with 
sincere  interest  his  high  estimate  of  them.  But  a great  poet’s 
w’ork  never  needs  arrangement  by  other  hands  ; and  though  it 
is  very  proper  that  Silver  How  should  clearly  understand  and 
brightly  praise  its  fraternal  Rydal  Mount,  we  must  not  forget 
that,  over  yonder,  are  the  Andes,  all  the  while. 

Wordsworth’s  rank  and  scale  among  poets  were  determined 
by  himself,  in  a single  exclamation: — 

‘ What  was  the  great  Parnassus’  self  to  thee. 

Mount  Skiddaw?  ’ 

Answer  his  question  faithfully,  and  you  have  the  relation 
between  the  great  masters  of  the  Muse’s  teaching,  and  the 
pleasant  fingerer  of  his  pastoral  fiute  among  the  reeds  of 
Rydal. 


I have  been  greatly  disappointed,  in  taking  soundings  of  our  most  ma- 
jestic mountain  pools,  to  find  tliem,  in  no  case,  verge  on  the  unfathomable. 


FICTIOK — FAIR  AKD  FOUL. 


45 


Wordsworth  is  simply  a Westmoreland  peasant,  with  con- 
siderably less  shrewdness  than  most  border  Englishmen  or 
Scotsmen  inherit;  and  no  sense  of  humour:  but  gifted  (in 
this  singularly)  with  vivid  sense  of  natural  beauty,  and  a 
pretty  turn  for  reflections,  not  always  acute,  but,  as  far  as  they 
reach,  medicinal  to  the  fever  of  the  restless  and  corrupted  life 
around  him.  Water  to  parched  lips  may  be  better  than  Sa- 
mian wine,  but  do  not  let  us  therefore  confuse  the  qualities  of 
wine  and  water.  I much  doubt  there  being  many  inglorious 
Miltons  in  our  country  churchyards ; but  I am  very  sure  there 
are  many  W ordsworths  resting  there,  who  were  inferior  to  the 
renowned  one  only  in  caring  less  to  hear  themselves  talk. 

With  an  honest  and  kindly  heart,  a stimulating  egoism,  a 
wholesome  contentment  in  modest  circumstances,  and  such 
sufficient  ease,  in  that  accepted  state,  as  permitted  the  passing 
of  a good  deal  of  time  in  wishing  that  daisies  could  see  the 
beauty  of  their  own  shadows,  and  other  such  profltable  mental 
exercises,  Wordsworth  has  left  us  a series  of  studies  of  the 
graceful  and  happy  shepherd  life  of  our  lake  country,  which 
to  me  personally,  for  one,  are  entirely  sweet  and  precious ; but 
they  are  only  so  as  the  mirror  of  an  existent  reality  in  many 
ways  more  beautiful  than  its  picture. 

But  the  other  day  I went  for  an  afternoon’s  rest  into  the 
cottage  of  one  of  our  country  people  of  old  statesman  class ; 
cottage  lying  nearly  midway  between  two  village  churches, 
but  more  conveniently  for  downhill  walk  towards  one  than  the 
other.  I found,  as  the  good  housewife  made  tea  for  me,  that 
nevertheless  she  went  up  the  hill  to  church.  ^ Why  do  not  you 
go  to  the  nearer  church  ? ’ I asked.  ‘ Don’t  you  like  the  clergy- 
man ? ’ ^ Oh  no,  sir,’  she  answered,  ‘ it  isn’t  that ; but  you 

know  I couldn’t  leave  my  mother.’  ^ Your  mother ! she  is 

buried  at  H then  ? ’ ‘ Yes,  sir ; and  you  know  I couldn’t 

go  to  church  anywhere  else.’ 

That  feelings  such  as  these  existed  among  the  peasants,  not  of 
Cumberland  only,  but  of  all  the  tender  earth  that  gives  forth 
her  fruit  for  the  living,  and  receives  her  dead  to  peace,  might 
perhaps  have  been,  to  our  great  and  endless  comfort,  disco v- 


46 


FICTIOI^ — FAIR  AND  FOXTL. 


ered  before  now,  if  Wordsworth  had  been  content  to  tell  ns 
what  he  knew  of  his  own  villages  and  people,  not  as  the  leader 
of  a new  and  only  correct  school  of  poetry,  but  simply  as  a 
country  gentleman  of  sense  and  feeling,  fond  of  primroses, 
kind  to  the  parish  children,  and  reverent  of  the  spade  with 
which  Wilkinson  had  tilled  his  lands:  and  I am  by  no  means 
sure  that  his  influence  on  the  stronger  minds  of  his  time  was 
anywise  hastened  or  extended  by  the  spirit  of  tunefulness 
under  whose  guidance  he  discovered  that  heaven  rhymed  to 
seven,  and  Foy  to  boy. 

Tuneful  nevertheless  at  heart,  and  of  the  heavenly  choir,  I 
gladly  and  frankly  acknowledge  him ; and  our  English  litera- 
ture enriched  with  a new  and  a singular  virtue  in  the  aerial 
purity  and  healthful  rightness  of  his  quiet  song ; — ^but  aerial 
only, — not  ethereal ; and  lowly  in  its  privacy  of  light. 

A measured  mind,  and  calm ; innocent,  unrepentant ; help- 
ful to  sinless  creatures  and  scatheless,  such  of  the  flock  as  do 
not  stray.  Hopeful  at  least,  if  not  faithful ; content  with  in- 
timations of  immortality  such  as  may  be  in  skipping  of  lambs, 
and  laughter  of  children, — incurious  to  see  in  the  hands  the 
print  of  the  Hails. 

A gracious  and  constant  mind ; as  the  herbage  of  its  native 
hills,  fragrant  and  pure ; — yet,  to  the  sweep  and  the  shadow, 
the  stress  and  distress,  of  the  greater  souls  of  men,  as  the  tufted 
thyme  to  the  laurel  wilderness  of  Tempo, — as  the  gleaming 
euphrasy  to  the  dark  branches  of  Dodona. 

[I  am  obliged  to  defer  the  main  body  of  this  paper  to  next  month, — re- 
vises penetrating  all  too  late  into  my  lacustrine  seclusion  ; as  chanced  also 
unluckily  with  the  preceding  paper,  in  which  the  reader  will  perhaps 
kindly  correct  the  consequent  misprints,  p.  27,  1.  24,  of  ‘ scarcely ' to  ‘ se- 
curely,’ and  p.  30,  1.  7,  ‘ full,’  with  comma,  to  ^ fall,’  without  one  ; notic- 
ing besides  that  Bedgauntlet  has  been  omitted  in  the  italicised  list,  p.  23,  1. 
18 ; and  that  the  reference  to  note  X should  not  be  at  the  word  ‘ imagination,’ 
p.  22,  but  at  the  word  ‘trade,’  p.  23,  1.  8.  My  dear  old  friend.  Dr.  John 
Brown,  sends  me,  from  Jamieson’s  Dictionary,  the  following  satisfactory 
end  to  one  of  my  difficulties  ‘ Coup  the  crans.’  The  language  is  borrowed 
from  the  ‘ cran,’  or  trivet  on  which  small  pots  are  placed  in  cookery,  which 
is  sometimes  turned  with  its  feet  uppermost  by  an  awkward  assistant.  Thus 
it  signifies  to  be  completely  upset.]  John  Buskin. 


FICTIOK — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


47 


[Bykon.] 

‘ Parching  summer  hath  no  warrant 
To  consume  this  crystal  well  ; 

Eains,  that  make  each  brook  a torrent, 

Neither  sully  it,  nor  swell/ 

So  WAS  it,  year  by  year,  among  the  nnthonght-of  hills.  Lit- 
tle Duddon  and  child  Eotha  ran  clear  and  glad  ; and  laughed 
from  ledge  to  pool,  and  opened  from  pool  to  mere,  translucent, 
through  endless  days  of  peace. 

But  eastward,  between  her  orchard  plains,  Loire  locked  her 
embracing  dead  in  silent  sands  ; dark  with  blood  rolled  Iser  ; 
glacial-pale,  Beresina-Lethe,  by  whose  shore  the  weary  hearts 
forgot  their  people,  and  their  father’s  house. 

Nor  unsullied,  Tiber ; nor  unswoln,  Arno  and  Aufidus  ; and 
Euroclydon  high  on  Hello’s  wave ; meantime,  let  our  happy 
piety  glorify  the  garden  rocks  with  snowdrop  circlet,  and 
breathe  the  spirit  of  Paradise,  where  life  is  wise  and  inno- 
cent. 

Maps  many  have  we,  now-a-days  clear  in  display  of  earth 
constituent,  air  current,  and  ocean  tide.  Shall  we  ever  en- 
grave the  map  of  meaner  research,  whose  shadings  shall  con- 
tent themselves  in  the  task  of  showing  the  depth,  or  drought, 
— the  calm,  or  trouble,  of  Human  Compassion  ? 

For  this  is  indeed  all  that  is  noble  in  the  life  of  Man,  and 
the  source  of  all  that  is  noble  in  the  speech  of  Mau.  Had  it 
narrowed  itself  then,  in  those  days,  out  of  all  the  world,  into 
this  peninsula  between  Cockermouth  and  Shap  ? 

Not  altogether  so ; but  indeed  the  Yocal  piety  seemed  con- 
clusively to  have  retired  (or  excursed  ?)  into  that  mossy  her- 
mitage, above  Little  Langdale.  The  C^vocal  piety,  with  the 
uncomplaining  sorrow,  of  Man,  may  have  had  a somewhat 
wider  range,  for  aught  we  know  : but  history  disregards  those 
items ; and  of  firmly  proclaimed  and  sweetly  canorous  religion, 
there  really  seemed  at  that  juncture  none  to  be  reckoned  upon, 
east  of  Ingleborough,  or  north  of  Criffel.  Only  under  Fur- 
ness Fells,  or  by  Bolton  Priory,  it  seems  we  can  still  write 
Ecclesiastical  Sonnets,  stanzas  on  the  force  of  Prayer,  Odes  to 


48 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


Duty,  and  complimentary  addresses  to  the  Deity  upon  His 
endurance  for  adoration.  Far  otherwise,  over  yonder,  by 
Spezzia  Bay,  and  Eavenna  Pineta,  and  in  ravines  of  Hartz. 
There,  the  softest  voices  speak  the  wildest  words  ; and  Keats 
discourses  of  Endymion,  Shelley  of  Demogorgon,  Goethe  of 
Lucifer,  and  Burger  of  the  Kesurrection  of  Death  unto  Death 
— while  even  Puritan  Scotland  and  Episcopal  Anglia  produce 
for  us  only  these  three  minstrels  of  doubtful  tone,  who  show 
but  small  respect  for  the  ^ unco  guid,’  put  but  limited  faith  in 
gifted  Gilfillan,  and  translate  with  unflinching  frankness  the 
Morgante  Maggiore.^ 

Dismal  the  aspect  of  the  spiritual  world,  or  at  least  the 
sound  of  it,  might  well  seem  to  the  eyes  and  ears  of  Saints 
(such  as  we  had)  of  the  period — dismal  in  angels’  eyes  also 
assuredly ! Yet  is  it  possible  that  the  dismalness  in  angelic 
sight  may  be  otherwise  quartered,  as  it  were,  from  the  way  of 
mortal  heraldry  ; and  that  seen,  and  heard,  of  angels, — again  I 
say — hesitatingly — is  it  possible  that  the  goodness  of  the  Unco 
Guid,  and  the  gift  of  Gilflllan,  and  the  word  of  Mr.  Blatter- 
gowl,  may  severally  not  have  been  the  goodness  of  God,  the 
gift  of  God,  nor  the  word  of  Go.d  : but  that  in  the  much 
blotted  and  broken  efforts  at  goodness,  and  in  the  careless  gift 
which  they  themselves  despised,f  and  in  the  sweet  ryme  and 
murmur  of  their  unpurposed  words,  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord 


* ‘ It  must  be  put  by  the  original,  stanza  for  stanza,  and  verse  for  verse  ; 
and  you  will  see  what  was  permitted  in  a Catholic  country  and  a bigoted 
age  to  Churchmen,  on  the  score  of  Eeligion — and  so  tell  those  buffoons 
who  accuse  me  of  attacking  the  Liturgy. 

‘ I write  in  the  greatest  haste,  it  being  the  hour  of  the  Corso,  and  I must 
go  and  buffoon  with  the  rest.  My  daughter  Allegra  is  just  gone  with  the 
Countess  G.  in  Count  G.’s  coach  and  six.  Our  old  Cardinal  is  dead,  and  the 
new  one  not  appointed  yet — but  the  masquing  goes  on  the  same.’  (Letter  to 
Murray,  355th  in  Moore,  dated  Eavenna,  Feb.  7,  1828.)  ‘ A dreadfully 
moral  place,  for  you  must  not  look  at  anybody’s  wife,  except  your  neigh- 
bour’s.’ 

f See  quoted  infra  the  mock,  by  Byron,  of  himself  and  all  other  modern 
poets,  JuaUy  canto  iii.  stanza  86,  and  compare  canto  xiv.  stanza  8.  In 
reference  of  future  quotations  the  first  numeral  wail  stand  always  for  canto; 
the  second  for  stanza  ; the  third,  if  necessary,  for  line, 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


49 


had,  indeed,  wandering,  as  in  chaos  days  on  lightless  waters, 
gone  forth  in  the  hearts  and  from  the  lips  of  those  other  tljree 
strange  prophets,  even  though  they  ate  forbidden  bread  by  the 
altar  of  the  poured-out  ashes,  and  even  though  the  wild  beast 
of  the  desert  found  them,  and  slew. 

This,  at  least,  I know,  that  it  had  been  well  for  England, 
though  all  her  other  prophets,  of  the  Press,  the  Parliament, 
the  Doctors  chair,  and  the  Bishop’s  throne,  had  fallen  silent; 
so  only  that  she  had  been  able  to  understand  with  her  heart 
here  and  there  the  simplest  line  of  these,  her  despised. 

I take  one  at  mere  chance  : 

‘ Who  thinks  of  self,  when  gazing  on  the  sky  ? ' * 

Well,  I don’t  know;  Mr.  Wordsworth  certainly  did,  and 
observed,  with  truth,  that  its  clouds  took  a sober  colouring 
in  consequence  of  his  experiences.  It  is  much  if,  indeed,  this 
sadness  be  unselfish,  and  our  eyes  hme  kept  loving  watch  o’er 
Man’s  Mortality.  I have  found  it  diflScult  to  make  any  one 
now-a-days  believe  that  such  sobriety  can  be ; and  that  Tur- 
ner saw  deeper  crimson  than  others  in  the  clouds  of  Goldau. 
But  that  any  should  yet  think  the  clouds  brightened  by  Man’s 
/mmortality  instead  of  dulled  by  his  death, — and,  gazing  on 
the  sky,  look  for  the  day  when  every  eye  must  gaze  also — 
for  behold.  He  cometh  with  the  clouds — this  it  is  no  more 
possible  for  Christian  England  to  apprehend,  however  ex- 
horted by  her  gifted  and  guid. 

^ But  Byron  was  not  thinking  of  such  things  ! ’ — He,  the 
reprobate  ! how  should  such  as  he  think  of  Christ  ? 

Perhaps  not  wholly  as  you  or  I think  of  him.  Take,  at 
chance,  another  line  or  two,  to  try  : 

‘ Carnage  (so  Wordsworth  tells  you)  is  God’s  daughter  ; f 
If  he  speak  truth,  she  is  Christ’s  sister,  and 
Just  now,  behaved  as  in  the  Holy  Land.’ 

^ Island j ii.  16,  where  see  context. 

t Juan,  viii.  5 ; but,  by  your  Lordship’s  quotation,  Wordsworth  says 
‘ instrument  ’ — not  ‘ daughter.’  Your  Lordship  had  better  have  said 
‘ Infant’  and  taken  the  Woolwich  authorities  to  witness  : only  Infant  would 
not  have  rymed. 

4 


50 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


Blasphemy,  cry  you,  good  reader  ? Are  you  sure  you  under- 
stand it?  The  first  line  I gave  you  was  easy  Byron — almost 
shallow  Byron — these  are  of  the  man  in  his  depth,  and  you 
will  not  fathom  them,  like  a tarn, — nor  in  a hurry. 

^ Just  now  behaved  as  in  the  Holy  Land.’  How  did  Car- 
nage behave  in  the  Holy  Land  then  ? You  have  all  been 
greatly  questioning,  of  late,  whether  the  sun,  which  you  find 
to  be  now  going  out,  ever  stood  still.  Did  you  in  any  lagging 
minute,  on  those  scientific  occasions,  chance  to  refiect  what  he 
was  bid  stand  still  for?  or  if  not — will  you  please  look — and 
what,  also,  going  forth  again  as  a strong  man  to  run  his 
course,  he  saw,  rejoicing? 

^ Then  Joshua  passed  from  Makkedah  unto  Libnah  — and 
fought  against  Libnah.  And  the  Lord  delivered  it  and  the 
king  thereof  into  the  hand  of  Israel,  and  he  smote  it  with  the 
edge  of  the  sword,  and  all  the  souls  that  were  therein.’  And 
from  Lachish  to  Eglon,  and  from  Eglon  to  Kirjath-Arba,  and 
Sarah’s  grave  in  the  Amorites’  land,  ^ and  Joshua  smote  all  the 
country  of  the  hills  and  of  the  south — and  of  the  vale  and  of 
the  springs,  and  all  their  kings ; he  left  none  remaining,  but 
utterly  destroyed  all  that  breathed — as  the  Lord  God  of  Israel 
commanded.’ 

Thus  ^ it  is  written  : ’ though  you  perhaps  do  not  so  often 
hear  these  texts  preached  from,  as  certain  others  about  taking 
away  the  sins  of  the  world.  I wonder  how  the  world  would 
like  to  part  with  them  ! hitherto  it  has  always  preferred  part- 
ing first  with  its  Life — and  God  has  taken  it  at  its  word. 
But  Death  is  not  His  Begotten  Son,  for  all  that ; nor  is  the 
death  of  the  innocent  in  battle  carnage  His  ‘instrument  for 
working  out  a pure  intent’  as  Mr.  Wordsworth  puts  it ; but 
Man’s  instrument  for  working  out  an  impure  one,  as  Byron 
would  have  you  to  know.  Theology  perhaps  less  orthodox, 
but  certainly  more  reverent ; — neither  is  the  Woolwich  Infant 
a Child  of  God  ; neither  does  the  iron-clad  ‘ Thunderer  ’ utter 
thunders  of  God — which  facts,  if  you  had  had  the  grace  or 
sense  to  learn  from  Byron,  instead  of  accusing  him  of  blas- 
phemy, it  had  been  better  at  this  day  for  you^  and  for  many 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


51 


a savage  soul  also,  by  Euxine  sliore,  and  in  Zulu  and  Afghan 
lands. 

It  was  neither,  however,  for  the  theology,  nor  the  use,  of 
these  lines  that  I quoted  them ; but  to  note  this  main  point 
of  Byron’s  own  character.  He  was  the  first  great  Englishman 
who  felt  the  cruelty  of  war,  and,  in  its  cruelty,  the  shame. 
Its  guilt  had  been  known  to  George  Fox — its  folly  shown 
practically  by  Penn.  But  the  comjpassion  of  the  pious  world 
had  still  for  the  most  part  been  shown  only  in  keeping  its 
stock  of  Barabbases  unhanged  if  possible : and,  till  Byron 
came,  neither  Kunersdorf,  Eylau,  nor  Waterloo,  had  taught 
the  pity  and  the  pride  of  men  that 

‘ The  drying  up  a single  tear  has  more 
Of  honest  fame  than  shedding  seas  of  gore.’  * 

Such  pacific  verse  would  not  indeed  have  been  acceptable  to 
the  Edinburgh  volunteers  on  Portobello  sauds.  But  Byron 
can  write  a battle  song  too,  when  it  is  his  cue  to  fight.  If 
you  look  at  the  introduction  to  the  Isles  of  Greece^  namely  the 
85th  and  86th  stanzas  of  the  3rd  canto  of  Don  Juan^ — you 
will  find — what  will  you  not  find,  if  only  you  understand  them ! 
^ He’  in  the  first  line,  remember,  means  the  typical  modern  poet. 

‘ Thus  usually,  when  he  was  asked  to  sing, 

He  gave  the  different  nations  something  national. 

’Twas  all  the  same  to  him — ''  God  save  the  King” 

Or  ‘‘  Qa  ira”  according  to  the  fashion  all ; 

His  muse  made  increment  of  anything 
From  the  high  lyric  down  to  the  low  rational : 

If  Pindar  sang  horse-races,  what  should  hinder 

Himself  from  being  as  pliable  as  Pindar  ? 

‘ In  France,  for  instance,  he  would  write  a chanson  ; 

In  England  a six-canto  quarto  tale  ; 

In  Spain,  he’d  make  a balance  or  romance  on 
The  last  war — much  the  same  in  Portugal ; 

^ Juan,  viii.  3 ; compare  14  and  63,  with  all  its  lovely  context  61 — 68  ; 
then  82,  and  afterwards  slowly  and  with  thorough  attention,  the  Devil’s 
speech,  beginning,  ‘Yes,  Sir,  you  forget’  in  scene  2 of  The  Deformed 
Transformed : then  Sardanapalus’s,  act  i.  scene  2,  beginning  ‘ he  is  gone,  and 
on  his  finger  bears  my  signet,’  and  finally,  the  Vision  of  Judgment,  stanzas 
3 to  5. 


52 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


In  Germany,  the  Pegasus  he’d  prance  on 
Would  be  old  Goethe’s — (see  what  says  de  Stael) 

In  Italy  he’d  ape  the  ‘ Trecentisti ; ’ 

In  Greece,  he’d  sing  some  sort  of  hymn  like  this  t’  ye. 

Note  first  liere,  as  we  did  in  Scott,  the  concentrating  and 
foretelling  power.  The  ^God  Save  the  Queen  ’ in  England, 
fallen  hollow  now,  as  the  ^ France — not  a man  in 

France  knowing  where  either  France  or  Ghat’  (whatever 
^ that  ’ may  be)  is  going  to ; nor  the  Queen  of  England  dar- 
ing, for  her  life,  to  ask  the  tiniest  Englishman  to  do  a single 
thing  he  doesn’t  like  ; — nor  any  salvation,  either  of  Queen  or 
Realm,  being  any  more  possible  to  God,  unless  under  the 
direction  of  the  Royal  Society : then,  note  the  estimate  of 
height  and  depth  in  poetry,  swept  in  an  instant,  ‘ high  lyric 
to  low  rational.’  Pindar  to  Pope  (knowing  Pope’s  height,  too, 
all  the  while,  no  man  better) ; then,  the  poetic  power  of 
France — resumed  in  a word  — Beranger  ; then  the  cut  at 
Marmion,  entirely  deserved,  as  we  shall  see,  yet  kindly  given, 
for  everything  he  names  in  these  two  stanzas  is  the  best  of  its 
kind  ; then  Romance  in  Spain  on — the  last  war,  {present  war 
not  being  to  Spanish  poetical  taste),  then,  Goethe  the  real 
heart  of  all  Germany,  and  last,  the  aping  of  the  Trecentisti 
which  has  since  consummated  itself  in  Pre-Raphael itism ! 
that  also  being  the  best  thing  Italy  has  done  through  Eng- 
land, whether  in  Rossetti’s  ^ blessed  damozels  ’ or  Burne 
Jones’s  ‘ days  of  creation.’  Lastly  comes  the  mock  at  himself 
— the  modern  English  Greek — (followed  up  by  the  ‘ degener- 
ate into  hands  like  mine  ’ in  the  song  itself) ; and  then — to 
amazement,  forth  he  thunders  in  his  Achilles  voice.  We  have 
had  one  line  of  him  in  his  clearness — five  of  him  in  his 
depth — sixteen  of  him  in  his  play.  Hear  now  but  these,  out 
of  his  whole  heart : — 

‘ What, — silent  yet  ? and  silent  all  f 
Ah  no,  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a distant  torrent’s  fall, 

And  answer,  “ Let  one  living  head. 

But  one,  arise — we  conic — we  come 
— ’Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb.’ 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


53 


Resurrection,  this,  you  see  like  Burger’s  ; but  not  of  death 
unto  death. 

^ Sound  like  a distant  torrent’s  fall.’  I said  the  whole  heart 
of  Byron  was  in  this  passage.  First  its  compassion,  then  its 
indignation,  and  the  third  element,  not  yet  examined,  that 
love  of  the  beauty  of  this  world  in  which  the  three — unholy 
— children,  of  its  Fiery  Furnace  were  like  to  each  other  ; but 
Byron  the  widest-hearted.  Scott  and  Burns  love  Scotland 
more  than  Nature  itseK : for  Burns  the  moon  must  rise  over 
Cumnock  Hills, — for  Scott,  the  Eymer’s  glen  divide  the 
Eildons;  but,  for  Byron,  Loch-na-Gar  with  Ida^  looks  o’er 
Troy,  and  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  Dee  and  the  Bruar  change 
into  voices  of  the  dead  on  distant  Marathon. 

Yet  take  the  parallel  from  Scott,  by  a field  of  homelier 
rest : — 

* And  silence  aids — though  the  steep  hills 
Send  to  the  lake  a thousand  rills  ; 

In  summer  tide,  so  soft  they  weep, 

The  sound  but  lulls  the  ear  asleep ; 

Your  horse's  hoof- tread  sounds  too  rude, 

So  stilly  is  the  solitude. 

Naught  living  meets  the  eye  or  ear, 

But  well  I ween  the  dead  are  near  ; 

For  though,  in  feudal  strife,  a foe 
Hath  laid  our  Lady's  Chapel  low, 

Yet  still  beneath  the  hallowed  soil, 

The  peasant  rests  him  from  his  toil. 

And,  dying,  bids  his  bones  be  laid 
Where  erst  his  simple  fathers  prayed.’ 

And  last  take  the  same  note  of  sorrow — with  Burns’s  finger 
on  the  fall  of  it : 

^ Mourn,  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens, 

Ye  hazly  shaws  and  briery  dens, 

Ye  burnies,  wimplin'  down  your  glens 
Wi'  toddlin'  din, 

Or  foamin'  strang  wi'  hasty  stens 
Frae  linto  lin.' 

As  you  read,  one  after  another,  these  fragments  of  chant  by 
the  great  masters,  does  not  a sense  come  upon  you  of  some 


S4 


FICTION — FAIU  AKO  FOUL, 


element  in  their  passion,  no  less  than  in  their  sound,  different, 
specifically,  from  that  of  ‘ Parching  summer  hath  no  warrant’  ? 
Is  it  more  profane,  think  you — or  more  tender — nay,  perhaps, 
in  the  core  of  it,  more  true  ? 

For  instance,  when  we  are  told  that 

‘ Wharfe,  as  he  moved  along, 

To  matins  joined  a mournful  voice,' 

is  this  disposition  of  the  river’s  mind  to  pensive  psalmody 
quite  logically  accounted  for  by  the  previous  statement,  (itself 
by  no  means  rhythmically  dulcet,)  that 

‘ The  boy  is  in  the  arms  of  Wharf e. 

And  strangled  by  a merciless  force ' ? 

Or,  when  we  are  led  into  the  improving  reflection, 

‘ How  sweet  w^ere  leisure,  could  it  yield  no  more 
Than  'mid  this  wave- washed  churchyard  to  recline. 

From  pastoral  graves  extracting  thoughts  divine  ! ' 

— is  the  divinity  of  the  extract  assured  to  us  by  its  being 
made  at  leisure,  and  in  a reclining  attitude — as  compared  with 
the  meditations  of  otherwise  active  men,  in  an  erect  one  ? 
Or  are  we  perchance,  many  of  us,  still  erring  somewhat  in  our 
notions  alike  of  Divinity  and  Humanity, — poetical  extraction, 
and  moral  position  ? 

On  the  chance  of  its  being  so,  might  I ask  hearing  for  just 
a few  words  more  of  the  school  of  Belial  ? 

Their  occasion,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  a quite  unjustifiable 
one.  Some  very  wicked  people — ^^mutineers,  in  fact — have 
retired,  misanthropically,  into  an  unfrequented  part  of  tlie 
country,  and  there  find  themselves  safe,  indeed,  but  extremely 
thirsty.  Whereupon  Byron  thus  gives  them  to  drink : 

‘ A little  stream  came  tumbling  from  the  height 
And  straggling  into  ocean  as  it  might. 

Its  bounding  crystal  frolicked  in  the  ray 

And  gushed  from  cliff  to  crag  with  saltless  spray, 

Close  on  the  wild  wide  ocean, — ^yet  as  pure 
And  fresh  as  Innocence  ; and  more  secure. 


nCTIO^Sr— FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


55 


Its  silver  torrent  glittered  o’er  the  deep 
As  the  shy  chamois’  eye  o’erlooks  the  steep, 

While,  far  below,  the  vast  and  sullen  swell 
Of  ocean’s  Alpine  azure  rose  and  fell.’  * 

Now,  I beg,  witli  such  authority  as  an  old  workman  may  take 
concerning  his  trade,  having  also  looked  at  a waterfall  or  two 
in  my  time,  and  not  unfrequently  at  a wave,  to  assure  the 
reader  that  here  is  entirely  first-rate  literary  work.  Though 
Lucifer  himself  had  written  it,  the  thing  is  itself  good,  and 
not  only  so,  but  unsurpassably  good,  the  closing  line  being 
probably  the  best  concerning  the  sea  yet  written  by  the  race 
of  the  sea-kings. 

But  Lucifer  himself  could  not  have  written  it ; neither  any 
servant  of  Lucifer.  I do  not  doubt  but  that  most  readers 
were  surprised  at  my  saying,  in  the  close  of  my  first  paper, 
that  Byron’s  ^ style  ’ depended  in  any  wise  on  his  views  respect- 
ing the  Ten  Commandments.  That  so  all-important  a thing 
as  ‘style’  should  depend  in  the  least  upon  so  ridiculous  a 
thing  as  moral  sense : or  that  Allegra’s  father,  watching  her 
drive  by  in  Count  G.’s  coach  and  six,  had  any  remnant  of  so 
ridiculous  a thing  to  guide, — or  check, — his  poetical  passion, 
may  alike  seem  more  than  questionable  to  the  liberal  and  chaste 
philosophy  of  the  existing  British  public.  But,  first  of  all,  put- 
ting the  question  of  who  writes,  or  speaks,  aside,  do  you,  good 
reader,  know  good  ^ style  ’ when  you  get  it  ? Can  you  say  of 
half-a-dozen  given  lines  taken  anywhere  out  of  a novel,  or  poem, 
or  play.  That  is  good,  essentially,  in  style,  or  bad,  essentially  ? 
and  can  you  say  why  such  half-dozen  lines  are  good,  or  bad  ? 

I imagine  that  in  most  cases  the  reply  would  be  given  with 
hesitation,  yet  if  you  will  give  me  a little  patience,  and  take 
some  accurate  pains,  I can  show  you  the  main  tests  of  style  in 
the  space  of  a couple  of  pages. 

I take  two  examples  of  absolutely  perfect,  and  in  manner 
highest,  kingly,  and  heroic,  style:  the  first  example  in 
expression  of  anger,  the  second  of  love. 

* Island,  iii.  3,  and  compare,  of  shore  surf,  the  ‘slings  its  high  flakes, 
shivered  into  sleet  ’ of  stanza  7. 


56 


nCTIOK — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


(1)  ‘ We  are  glad  the  Dauphin  is  so  pleasant  with  us, 

His  present,  and  your  pains,  we  thank  you  for. 

When  we  have  match’d  our  rackets  to  these  balls, 

We  will  in  France,  by  God’s  grace,  play  a set, 

Shall  strike  his  father’s  crown  into  the  hazard.’ 

(2)  ‘ My  gracious  Silence,  hail  ! 

Wouldst  thou  have  laughed,  had  I come  coffin’d  home 
That  weep’st  to  see  me  triumph?  Ah,  my  dear. 

Such  eyes  the  widows  in  Corioli  wear. 

And  mothers  that  lack  sons.’ 

Let  US  note,  point  by  point,  the  conditions  of  greatness 
common  to  both  these  passages,  so  opposite  in  temper. 

A.  Absolute  command  over  all  passion,  however  intense ; 
this  the  first-of-first  conditions,  (see  the  King’s  own  sentence 
just  before,  ^ We  are  no  tyrant,  but  a Christian  King,  Unto 
whose  grace  our  passion  is  as  subject  As  are  our  wretches 
fettered  in  our  prisons  ’) ; and  with  this  self-command,  the 
supremely  surveying  grasp  of  every  thought  that  is  to  be 
uttered,  before  its  utterance ; so  that  each  may  come  in  its 
exact  place,  time,  and  connection.  The  slightest  hurry,  the 
misplacing  of  a word,  or  the  unnecessary  accent  on  a syllable, 
would  destroy  the  ^ style’  in  an  instant. 

B.  Choice  of  the  fewest  and  simplest  words  that  can  be 
found  in  the  compass  of  the  language,  to  express  the  thing 
meant : these  few  words  being  also  arranged  in  the  most 
straightforward  and  intelligible  way ; allowing  inversion  only 
when  the  subject  can  be  made  primary  without  obscurity: 
(thus,  ‘his  present,  and  your  pains,  we  thank  you  for’  is  better 
than  ‘we  thank  you  for  his  present  and  your  pains,’  because 
the  Dauphin’s  gift  is  by  courtesy  put  before  the  Ambassador’s 
pains ; but  ‘ when  to  these  balls  our  rackets  we  have  matched  ’ 
would  have  spoiled  the  style  in  a moment,  because — I was 
going  to  have  said,  ball  and  rackets  are  of  equal  rank,  and 
therefore  only  the  natural  order  proper;  but  also  here  the 
natural  order  is  the  desired  one,  the  English  racket  to  have 
precedence  of  the  French  ball.  In  the  fourth  line  the  ‘in 
France  ’ comes  first,  as  announcing  the  most  important  resolu- 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


57 


tion  of  action ; the  ^ by  God’s  grace  ’ next,  as  the  only  condi- 
tion rendering  resolution  possible ; the  detail  of  issue  follows 
with  the  strictest  limit  in  the  final  word.  The  King  does  not 
say  ^ danger,’  far  less  ^ dishonour,’  but  ‘ hazard  ’ only  ; of  that 
he  is,  humanly  speaking,  sure. 

C.  Perfectly  emphatic  and  clear  utterance  of  the  chosen 
words ; slowly  in  the  degree  of  their  importance,  with  omis- 
sion however  of  every  word  not  absolutely  required  ; and 
natural  use  of  the  familiar  contractions  of  final  dissyllable. 
Thus  ^ play  a set  shall  strike  ’ is  better  than  ^ play  a set  that 
shall  strike,’  and  ^ match’d  ’ is  kingly  short — no  necessity  could 
have  excused  ^ matched  ’ instead.  On  the  contrary,  the  three 
first  words,  ^ We  are  glad,’  would  have  been  spoken  by  the 
king  more  slowly  and  fully  than  any  other  syllables  in  the 
whole  passage,  first  pronouncing  the  kingly  ^ we  ’ at  its  proud- 
est, and  then  the  ^ are  ’ as  a continuous  state,  and  then  the 
‘ glad,’  as  the  exact  contrary  of  what  the  ambassadors  expected 
him  to  be."^ 

D.  Absolute  spontaneity  in  doing  all  this,  easily  and  neces- 
sarily as  the  heart  beats.  The  king  cannot  speak  otherwise 
than  he  does — nor  the  hero.  The  words  not  merely  come  to 
them,  but  are  compelled  to  them.  Even  lisping  numbers 
^corne,’  but  mighty  numbers  are  ordained,  and  inspired. 

E.  Melody  in  the  words,  changeable  with  their  passion 
fitted  to  it  exactly  and  the  utmost  of  which  the  language  is 
capable — the  melody  in  prose  being  Eolian  and  variable — in 
verse,  nobler  by  submitting  itself  to  stricter  law.  I will 
enlarge  upon  this  point  presently. 

F.  Utmost  spiritual  contents  in  the  words ; so  that  each 
carries  not  only  its  instant  meaning,  but  a cloudy  companion- 
ship of  higher  or  darker  meaning  according  to  the  passion — 
nearly  always  indicated  by  metaphor : ^ play  a set  ’ — some- 

* A modern  editor — of  whom  I will  not  use  the  expressions  which  occur 
to  me — ^finding  the  ‘ we  ’ a redundant  syllable  in  the  iambic  line,  prints 
‘ we’re.'  It  is  a little  thing — but  I do  not  recollect,  in  the  forty  years  of  my 
literary  experience,  any  piece  of  editor’s  retouch  quite  so  base.  But  I don’t 
read  the  new  editions  much ; that  must  be  allowed  for. 


58 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


times  by  abstraction — (thus  in  the  second  passage  ^ silence 
for  silent  one)  sometimes  by  description  instead  of  direct 
epithet  coffined  ’ for  dead)  but  always  indicative  of  there 
being  more  in  the  speaker’s  mind  than  he  has  said,  or  than  he 
can  say,  full  though  his  saying  be.  On  the  quantity  of  this 
attendant  fulness  depends  the  majesty  of  style ; that  is  to  saj", 
virtually,  on  the  quantity  of  contained  thought  in  briefest 
words,  such  thought  being  primarily  loving  and  true  : and  this 
the  sum  of  all — that  nothing  can  be  well  said,  but  with  truth, 
nor  beautifully,  but  by  love. 

Tliese  are  the  essential  conditions  of  noble  speech  in  prose 
and  verse  alike,  but  the  adoption  of  the  form  of  verse,  and 
especially  rymed  verse,  means  the  addition  to  all  these  quali- 
ties of  one  more ; of  music,  that  is  to  say,  not  Eolian  merely, 
but  Apolline ; a construction  or  architecture  of  words  fitted 
and  befitting,  under  external  laws  of  time  and  harmony. 

When  Byron  says  ^ rhyme  is  of  the  rude,’  ^ he  means  that 
Burns  needs  it, — while  Henry  the  Fifth  does  not,  nor  Plato, 

* Island,  ii.  5.  I was  going  to  say,  ‘ Look  to  the  context,’  but  am  fain  to 
give  it  here  ; for  the  stanza,  learned  by  heart,  ought  to  be  our  school -intro- 
duction to  the  literature  of  the  world. 

‘ Such  was  this  ditty  of  Tradition’s  days, 

Which  to  the  dead  a lingering  fame  conveys 
In  song,  where  fame  as  yet  hath  left  no  sign 
Beyond  the  sound  whose  charm  is  half  divine  ; 

Which  leaves  no  record  to  the  sceptic  eye,  ^ 

But  yields  young  history  all  to  harmony; 

A boy  Achilles,  with  the  centaur’s  lyre 
In  hand,  to  teach  him  to  surpass  his  sire. 

For  one  long-cherish’d  ballad’s  simple  stave 
Rung  from  the  rock,  or  mingled  with  the  wave. 

Or  from  the  bubbling  streamlet’s  grassy  side, 

Or  gathering  mountain  echoes  as  they  glide. 

Hath  greater  power  o’er  each  true  heart  and  ear, 

Than  all  the  columns  Conquest’s  minions  rear  ; 

Invites,  when  hieroglyphics  are  a theme 
For  sages’  labours  or  the  student’s  dream; 

Attracts,  when  History’s  volumes  are  a toil— 

The  first,  the  freshest  bud  of  Feeling’s  soil. 

Such  was  this  rude  rhyme— rhyme  is  of  the  rude. 

But  such  inspired  the  Norseman’s  solitude. 

Who  came  and  conquer’d;  such,  wherever  rise 
Lands  which  no  foes  destroy  or  civilise. 

Exist;  and  what  can  our  accomplish’d  art 
Of  verse  do  more  than  reach  the  awaken’d  heart?  ’ 


FICTIO]Sr — FAIR  AKD  FOUL. 


59 


nor  Isaiali — yet  in  this  need  of  it  by  the  simple,  it  becomes  all 
the  more  religious : and  thus  the  loveliest  pieces  of  Christian 
language  are  all  in  ryme — the  best  of  Dante,  Chaucer,  Doug- 
las, Shakespeare,  Spenser,  and  Sidney. 

I am  not  now  able  to  keep  abreast  with  the  tide  of  modern 
scholarship ; (nor,  to  say  the  truth,  do  I make  the  effort,  the 
first  edge  of  its  waves  being  mostly  muddy,  and  apt  to  make 
a shallow  sweep  of  the  shore  refuse :)  so  that  I have  no  better 
book  of  reference  by  me  than  the  confused  essay  on  the 
antiquity  of  ryme  at  the  end  of  Turner’s  A^nglo-Saxons,  I 
cannot  however  conceive  a more  interesting  piece  of  work,  if 
not  yet  done,  than  the  collection  of  sifted  earliest  fragments 
known  of  rymed  song  in  European  languages.  Of  Eastern  I 
know  nothing  ; but,  this  side  Hellespont,  the  substance  of  the 
matter  is  all  given  in  King  Canute’s  impromptu 

' Gaily  (or  is  it  sweetly? — I forget  which,  and  it's  no  matter)  sang  the  monks 
of  Ely, 

As  Knut  the  king  came  sailing  by ; ' 

much  to  be  noted  by  any  who  make  their  religion  lugubrious, 
and  their  Sunday  the  eclipse  of  the  week.  And  observe  fur- 
ther, that  if  Milton  does  not  ryme,  it  is  because  his  faculty  of 
Song  was  concerning  Loss,  chiefly ; and  he  has  little  more 
than  faculty  of  Croak,  concerning  Gain ; while  Dante,  though 
modern  readers  never  go  further  with  him  than  into  the  Pit, 
is  stayed  only  by  Casella  in  the  ascent  to  the  Rose  of  Heaven. 
So,  Gibbon  can  write  in  his  manner  the  Fall  of  Rome ; but 
Virgil,  in  his  manner,  the  rise  of  it;  and  finally  Douglas,  in 
his  manner,  bursts  into  such  rymed  passion  of  praise  both  of 
Rome  and  Virgil,  as  befits  a Christian  Bishop,  and  a good  sub- 
ject of  the  Holy  See. 

‘ Master  of  Masters — sweet  source,  and  springing  well, 

Wide  where  over  all  ringes  thy  heavenly  bell ; 

Why  should  I then  with  dull  forehead  and  vain. 

With  rude  ingene,  and  barane,  emptive  brain. 

With  bad  harsh  speech,  and  lewit  barbarc  tongue 
Presume  to  write,  where  thy  sweet  bell  is  rung. 


60 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


Or  counterfeit  thy  precious  wordis  dear? 

Na,  na — not  so;  but  kneel  when  I them  hear. 

But  farther  more — and  lower  to  descend 
Forgive  me,  Yirgil,  if  I thee  offend 
Pardon  thy  scolar,  suffer  him  to  ryme 
Since  thou  wast  but  ane  mortal  man  sometime/ 

^ Before  honour  is  humility.’  Does  not  clearer  light  come 
for  you  on  that  law  after  reading  these  nobly  pious  words  % 
And  note  you  whose  humility  % How  is  it  that  the  sound  of 
the  bell  comes  so  instinctively  into  his  chiming  verse  ? This 
gentle  singer  is  the  son  of — Archibald  Bell-the-Cat ! 

And  now  perhaps  you  can  read  with  right  sympathy  the 
scene  in  Marmion  between  his  father  and  King  James. 

‘ His  hand  the  monarch  sudden  took — 

Now,  by  the  Bruce’s  soul, 

Angus,  my  hasty  speech  forgive, 

For  sure  as  doth  his  spirit  live 
As  he  said  of  the  Douglas  old 
I well  may  say  of  you, — 

That  never  king  did  subject  hold. 

In  speech  more  free,  in  war  more  bold, 

More  tender  and  more  true  : 

And  while  the  king  his  hand  did  strain 
The  old  man’s  tears  fell  down  like  rain/ 

I believe  the  most  infidel  of  scholastic  readers  can  scarcely 
but  perceive  the  relation  between  the  sweetness,  simplicity, 
and  melody  of  expression  in  these  passages,  and  the  gentleness 
of  the  passions  they  express,  while  men  who  are  not  scholastic, 
and  yet  are  true  scholars,  will  recognise  further  in  them  that 
the  simplicity  of  the  educated  is  lovelier  than  the  simplicity 
of  the  rude.  Hear  next  a piece  of  Spenser’s  teaching  how 
rudeness  itself  may  become  more  beautiful  even  by  its  mis- 
takes, if  the  mistakes  are  made  lovingly. 

* Ye  shepherds’  daughters  that  dwell  oh  the  green, 

Hye  you  there  apace  ; 

Let  none  come  there  but  that  virgins  been 
To  adorn  her  grace  : 

And  when  you  come,  whereas  she  in  place. 

See  that  your  rudeness  do  not  you  disgrace ; 


FICTIOK — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


61 


Bind  your  fillets  fast, 

And  gird  in  your  waste. 

For  more  fineness,  with  a taudry  lace.’ 

‘ Bring  hither  the  pink  and  purple  cullumbine 
With  gyllifiowers ; 

Bring  coronations,  and  sops  in  wine. 

Worn  of  paramours  ; 

Strow  me  the  ground  with  daffadowndillies 
And  cowslips,  and  kingcups,  and  loved  lilies ; 

The  pretty  paunce 
And  the  chevisaunce 
Shall  match  with  the  fair  fiowre-delice.’  * 

Two  short  pieces  more  only  of  master  song,  and  we  have 
enough  to  test  all  by. 

(2)  ‘ No  more,  no  more,  since  thou  art  dead, 

Shall  we  e’er  bring  coy  brides  to  bed. 

No  more,  at  yearly  festivals, 

We  cowslip  balls 

Or  chains  of  columbines  shall  make. 

For  this  or  that  occasion’s  sake. 

No,  no!  our  maiden  pleasures  be 
Wrapt  in  thy  winding-sheet  with  thee.’f 

(3)  * Death  is  now  the  phoenix  rest. 

And  the  turtle’s  loyal  breast 
To  eternity  doth  rest. 

Truth  may  seem,  but  cannot  be; 

Beauty  brag,  but  ’tis  not  she: 

Truth  and  beauty  buried  be.’J 

If  now,  with  the  echo  of  these  perfect  verses  in  yonr  mind, 
yon  turn  to  Byron,  and  glance  over,  or  recall  to  memory, 
enough  of  him  to  give  means  of  exact  comparison,  you  will, 
or  should,  recognise  these  following  kinds  of  mischief  in  him. 
First,  if  any  one  offends  him — as  for  instance  Mr.  Southey,  or 

* Shepherd's  Calendar.  ' Coronation,’  loyal-pastoral  for  Carnation  ; ‘ sops 
in  wine,’  jolly-pastoral  for  double  pink  ; ‘ paunce,’  thoughtless  pastoral  for 
pansy  ; ‘ chevisaunce  ’ I don’t  know,  (not  in  Geravde) ; ' flowre-delice  ’ — pro- 
nounce dellice — half  made  up  of  ‘ delicate  ’ and  * delicious.’ 
t Herrick,  Dirge  for  Jephthah's  Daughter. 

X Passionate  Pilgrim. 


62 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


Lord  Elgin — ‘his  manners  have  not  that  repose  that  marks 
the  caste,’  etc.  This  defect  in  his  Lordship’s  style,  being  my- 
self scrupulously  and  even  painfully  reserved  in  the  use  of 
vituperative  language,  I need  not  say  how  deeply  I deplore."^ 

Secondly.  In  the  best  and  most  violet-bedded  bits  of  his 
work  there  is  yet,  as  compared  with  Elizabethan  and  earlier 
verse,  a strange  taint ; and  indefinable — evening  fiavour  of 
Covent  Garden,  as  it  were  ; — not  to  say,  escape  of  gas  in  the 
Strand.  That  is  simply  what  it  proclaims  itself — London  air. 
If  he  had  lived  all  his  life  in  Green-head  Ghyll,  things  would 
of  course  have  been  different.  But  it  was  his  fate  to  come  to 
town — modern  town — like  Michael’s  son ; and  modern  Lon- 
don (and  Yenice)  are  answerable  for  the  state  of  their  drains, 
not  Byron. 

Thirdly.  His  melancholy  is  without  any  relief  whatsoever ; 
his  jest  sadder  than  his  earnest ; while,  in  Elizabethan  work, 
all  lament  is  full  of  hope,  and  all  pain  of  balsam. 

Of  this  evil  he  has  himself  told  you  the  cause  in  a single 
line,  prophetic  of  all  things  since  and  now.  ^ Where  he  gazed, 
a gloom  pervaded  space.’  f 

So  that,  for  instance,  while  Mr.  Wordsworth,  on  a visit  to 
town,  being  an  exemplary  early  riser,  could  walk,  felicitous, 
on  Westminster  Bridge,  remarking  how  the  city  now  did  like 
a garment  wear  the  beauty  of  the  morning;  Byron,  rising 
somewhat  later,  contemplated  only  the  garment  which  the 
beauty  of  the  morning  had  by  that  time  received  for  wear 
from  the  city  : and  again,  while  Mr.  Wordsworth,  in  irrepres- 
sible religious  rapture,  calls  God  to  witness  that  the  houses 
seem  asleep,  Byron,  lame  demon  as  he  was,  fiying  smoke- 
drifted,  unroofs  the  houses  at  a glance,  and  sees  what  the 

* In  this  point,  compare  the  Curse  of  Minerm^Wh  the  1 ears  of  the  Muses. 
f ‘ He,' — Lucifer  ; ( Vision  of  Judgment,  24).  It  is  precisely  because  Byron 
was  not  his  servant,  that  he  could  see  the  gloom.  To  the  Devil’s  true  ser- 
vants, their  Master’s  presence  brings  both  cheerfulness  and  prosperity ; — 
with  a delightful  sense  of  their  own  wisdom  and  virtue  ; and  of  the  ' prog- 
ress ’ of  things  in  general : — in  smooth  sea  and  fair  weather, — and  with  no 
need  either  of  helm  touch,  or  oar  toil : as  when  once  one  is  well  within 
the  c.lgc  of  Maelstrom. 


riCTIOK — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


63 


mighty  cockney  heart  of  them  contains  in  the  still  lying  of  it, 
and  will  stir  up  to  purpose  in  the  waking  business  of  it. 

‘ The  sordor  of  civilisation,  mixed 
With  all  the  passions  which  Man’s  fall  hath  fixed.’  * 

Fourthly,  with  this  steadiness  of  bitter  melancholy,  there  is 
joined  a sense  of  the  material  beauty,  both  of  inanimate 
nature,  the  lower  animals,  and  human  beings,  which  in  the 
iridescence,  colour-depth,  and  morbid  (I  use  the  word  delib- 
erately) mystery  and  softness  of  it, — with  other  qualities  in- 
describable by  any  single  words,  and  only  to  be  analj^sed  by 
extreme  care, — is  found,  to  the  full,  only  in  five  men  that  I 
know  of  in  modern  times ; namely  Rousseau,  Shelley,  Byron, 
Turner,  and  myself, — diflering  totally  and  throughout  the  en- 
tire group  of  us,  from  the  delight  in  clear-struck  beauty  of 
Angelico  and  the  Trecentisti ; and  sej)arated,  much  more  sin- 
gularly, from  the  cheerful  joys  of  Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  and 
Scott,  by  its  unaccountable  affection  for  ‘ Rokkes  blak  ’ and 
other  forms  of  terror  and  power,  such  as  those  of  the  ice- 
oceans,  which  to  Shakespeare  were  only  Alpine  rheum  ; and  the 
Via  Malas  and  Diabolic  Bridges  which  Dante  would  have 
condemned  none  but  lost  souls  to  climb,  or  cross; — all  this 
love  of  impending  mountains,  coiled  thunder-clouds,  and  dan- 
gerous sea,  being  joined  in  us  with  a sulky,  almost  ferine,  love 
of  retreat  in  valleys  of  Charmettes,  gulphs  of  Spezzia,  ravines 
of  Olympus,  low  lodgings  in  Chelsea,  and  close  brushwood  at 
Coniston. 

And,  lastly,  also  in  the  whole  group  of  us,  glows  volcanic 
instinct  of  Astrscan  justice  returning  not  to,  but  up  out  of,  the 
earth,  which  will  not  at  all  suffer  us  to  rest  any  more  in  Pope’s 
serene  ‘ whatever  is,  is  right but  holds,  on  the  contrary,  pro- 
found conviction  that  about  ninety-nine  hundredths  of  whatever 
at  present  is,  is  wrong : conviction  making  four  of  us,  accord- 

* Island,  ii.  4 ; perfectly  orthodox  theology,  you  observe  ; no  denial  of 
the  fall  — nor  substitution  of  Bacterian  birth  for  it.  Nay.  nearly  Evangeli- 
cal theology,  in  contempt  for  the  human  heart ; but  with  deeper  than  Evan- 
gelical humility,  acknowledging  also  what  is  sordid  in  its  civilisation. 


64 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


ing  to  our  several  manners,  leaders  of  revolution  for  the  poor, 
and  declarers  of  political  doctrine  monstrous  to  the  ears  of 
mercenary  mankind ; and  driving  the  fifth,  less  sanguine,  into 
mere  painted-melody  of  lament  over  the  fallacy  of  Hope  and 
the  implacableness  of  Fate. 

In  Byron  the  indignation,  the  sorrow,  and  the  effort  are 
joined  to  the  death : and  they  are  the  parts  of  his  nature  (as  of 
mine  also  in  its  feebler  terms),  which  the  selfishly  comfortable 
public  have,  literally,  no  conception  of  whatever ; and  from 
which  the  piously  sentimental  public,  offering  up  daily  the 
pure  emotion  of  divine  tranquillity,  shrink  with  anathema  not 
unembittered  by  alarm. 

Concerning  which  matters  I hope  to  speak  further  and  with 
more  precise  illustration  in  my  next  paper ; but,  seeing  that 
this  present  one  has  been  hitherto  somewhat  sombre,  and  per- 
haps, to  gentle  readers,  not  a little  discomposing,  I will  con- 
clude it  with  a piece  of  light  biographic  study,  necessary  to 
my  plan,  and  as  conveniently  admissible  in  this  place  as  after- 
wards ; — namely,  the  account  of  the  manner  in  which  Scott — 
whom  we  shall  always  find,  as  aforesaid,  to  be  in  salient  and 
palpable  elements  of  character,  of  the  World,  worldly,  as 
Burns  is  of  the  Flesh,  fieshly,  and  Byron  of  the  Deuce, 
damnable, — spent  his  Sunday. 

As  usual,  from  Lockhart’s  farrago  we  cannot  find  out  the 
first  thing  we  want  to  know, — whether  Scott  worked  after  his 
week-day  custom,  on  the  Sunday  morning.  But,  I gather,  not ; 
at  all  events  his  household  and  his  cattle  rested  (L.  iii.  108). 
I imagine  he  walked  out  into  his  woods,  or  read  quietly  in 
his  study.  Immediately  after  breakfast,  whoever  was  in  the 
house,  ^ Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I shall  read  prayers  at  eleven, 
when  I expect  you  all  to  attend  ’ (vii.  306).  Question  of  col- 
lege and  other  externally  unanimous  prayers  settled  for  us  very 
briefiy:  ^if  you  have  no  faith,  have  at  least  manners.’  He 
read  the  Church  of  England  service,  lessons  and  all,  the  latter, 
if  interesting,  eloquently  {ibid,).  After  the  service,  one  of 
Jeremy  Taylor’s  sermons  (vi.  188).  After  the  sermon,  if  the 
weather  was  fine,  walk  with  his  family,  dogs  included  and 


FICTION — FAIR  AND  FOUL, 


65 


guests,  to  cold  picnic  (iii.  109),  followed  by  short  extempore 
biblical  novelettes ; for  he  had  his  Bible,  the  Old  Testament 
especially,  by  heart,  it  having  been  his  mother’s  last  gift  to 
him  (vi.  174).  These  lessons  to  his  children  in  Bible  history 
were  always  given,  whether  there  was  picnic  or  not.  For  the 
rest  of  the  afternoon  he  took  his  pleasure  in  the  woods  with 
Tom  Purdie,  who  also  always  appeared  at  his  master’s  elbow  on 
Sunday  after  dinner  was  over,  and  drank  long  life  to  the  laird 
and  his  lady  and  all  the  good  company,  in  a quaigh  of  whiskey 
or  a tumbler  of  wine,  according  to  his  fancy  (vi.  195).  What- 
ever might  happen  on  the  other  evenings  of  the  week,  Scott 
always  dined  at  home  on  Sunday  ; and  with  old  friends : never, 
unless  inevitably,  receiving  any  person  with  whom  he  stood 
on  ceremony  (v.  335).  He  came  into  the  room  rubbing  his 
hands  like  a boy  arriving  at  home  for  the  holidays,  his  Peppers 
and  Mustards  gambolling  about  him,  ^and  even  the  stately 
Maida  grinning  and  wagging  his  tail  with  sympathy.’  For  the 
usquebaugh  of  the  less  honoured  week-days,  at  the  Sunday 
board  he  circulated  the  champagne  briskly  during  dinner,  and 
considered  a pint  of  claret  each  man’s  fair  share  afterwards 
(v.  339).  In  the  evening,  music  being  to  the  Scottish  worldly 
mind  indecorous,  he  read  aloud  some  favourite  author,  for  the 
amusement  or  edification  of  his  little  circle.  Shakespeare  it 
might  be,  or  Dryden,— Johnson,  or  Joanna  Baillie, — Orabbe, 
or  Wordsworth.  But  in  those  days  ^ Byron  was  pouring  out 
his  spirit  fresh  and  full,  and  if  a new  piece  from  his  hand  had 
appeared,  it  was  sure  to  he  read  hy  Scott  the  Simday  evening 
afterwards ! and  that  with  such  delighted  emphasis  as  showed 
how  completely  the  elder  bard  had  kept  up  his  enthusiasm  for 
poetry  at  pitch  of  youth,  and  all  his  admiration  of  genius, 
free,  pure,  and  unstained  by  the  least  drop  of  literary  jealousy  ’ 
(v.  341). 

With  such  necessary  and  easily  imaginable  varieties  as 
chanced  in  having  Dandy  Dinmont  or  Captain  Brown  for  guests 
at  Abbotsford,  or  Colonel  Mannering,  Counsellor  Pleydell,  and 
Dr.  Robertson  in  Castle  Street,  such  was  Scott’s  habitual  Sab- 
bath : a day,  we  perceive,  of  eating  the  fat,  {dinner^  presuma- 
5 


66 


FICTIO^r — FAIR  AND  FOUL. 


bly  not  cold,  being  a work  of  necessity  and  mercy — thou  also, 
even  thou.  Saint  Thomas  of  Trumbull,  hast  thine !)  and  drinking 
the  sweet,  abundant  in  the  manner  of  Mr.  Southey’s  cataract  of 
Lodore, — ^Here  it  comes,  sparkling.’  A day  bestrewn  with 
coronations  and  sops  in  wine  ; deep  in  libations  to  good  hope 
and  fond  memory ; a day  of  rest  to  beast,  and  mirth  to  man, 
(as  also  to  sympathetic  beasts  that  can  be  merry,)  and  concluding 
itself  in  an  Orphic  hour  of  delight,  signifying  peace  on  Tweed- 
side,  and  goodwill  to  men,  there  or  far  away  ; — always  except- 
ing the  French,  and  Boney, 

‘ Yes,  and  see  what  it  all  came  to  in  the  end.’ 

Not  so,  dark-virulent  Minos-Mucklewrath  ; the  end  came  of 
quite  other  things  : of  these^  came  such  length  of  days  and 
peace  as  Scott  had  in  his  Fatherland,  and  such  immortality  as 
he  has  in  all  lands. 

Nathless,  firm,  though  deeply  courteous,  rebuke,  for  his 
sometimes  overmuch  light-mindedness,  was  administered  to 
him  by  the  more  grave  and  thoughtful  Byron.  For  the  Lord 
Abbot  of  Newstead  knew  his  Bible  by  heart  as  well  as  Scott, 
though  it  had  never  been  given  him  by  his  mother  as  her  dear- 
est possession.  Knew  it,  and,  what  was  more,  had  thought  of 
it,  and  sought  in  it  what  Scott  had  never  cared  to  think,  nor 
been  fain  to  seek. 

And  loving  Scott  well,  and  always  doing  him  every  possible 
pleasure  in  the  way  he  sees  to  be  most  agreeable  to  him — as, 
for  instance,  remembering  with  precision,  and  writing  down 
the  very  next  morning,  every  blessed  word  that  the  Prince 
Regent  had  been  pleased  to  say  of  him  before  courtly  audience, 
— he  yet  conceived  that  such  cheap  ryming  as  his  own  Bride 
of  Abydos^  for  instance,  which  he  had  written  from  beginning 
to  end  in  four  days,  or  even  the  travelling  reflections  of  Harold 
and  Juan  on  men  and  women,  were  scarcely  steady  enough 
Sunday  afternoon’s  reading  for  a patriarch-Merlin  like  Scott. 
So  he  dedicates  to  him  a work  of  a truly  religious  tendency, 
on  which  for  his  own  part  he  has  done  his  best, — the  drama  of 
Gain,  Of  which  dedication  the  virtual  significance  to  Sir 
Walter  might  be  translated  thus.  Dearest  and  last  of  Border 


FICTIOI^ — FAIR  AKD  FOUL. 


67 


soothsayers,  thou  hast  indeed  told  us  of  Black  Dwarfs,  and  of 
White  Maidens,  also  of  Grey  Friars,  and  Green  Fairies  ; also 
of  sacred  hollies  by  the  well,  and  haunted  crooks  in  the  glen. 
But  of  the  bushes  that  the  black  dogs  rend  in  the  woods  of 
Phlegethon ; and  of  the  crooks  in  the  glen,  and  the  bickerings 
of  the  burnie  where  ghosts  meet  the  mightiest  of  us ; and  of 
the  black  misanthrope,  who  is  by  no  means  yet  a dwarfed  one, 
and  concerning  whom  wiser  creatures  than  Hobbie  Elliot  may 
tremblingly  ask  ^ Gude  guide  us,  what’s  yon?’  hast  thou  yet 
known,  seeing  that  thou  hast  yet  told,  nothing, 

Scott  may  perhaps  have  his  answer.  We  shall  in  good  time 
hear. 


John  Buskin. 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS 


STUDIES  OF  MOUNTAIN  FORM 

AND  OP  ITS  VISIBLE  CAUSES. 


COLLECTED  AND  COMPLETED  OUT  OP 

“MODERN  PAINTERS.” 


BT 

JOHN  RUSKIN, 

HONORARY  STUDENT  OF  CHRISTCHURCH,  HONORARY  FELLOW  OF  CORPUS  CHRISTI  COLLEGE, 
AND  SLADE  PROFESSOR  OF  FINE  ART,  OXFORD. 


NEW  YORK  AND  SAINT  PAUL: 

D.  D.  MERRILL  COMPANY. 


r 


PREFACE. 


I RECEIVE  at  present  with  increasing  frequency  requests  or 
counsels  from  people  whose  wishes  and  advice  I respect,  for 
tlie  reprinting  of  ^Modern  Painters.’  When  I formerly  stated 
my  determination  not  to  republish  that  work  in  its  original 
form,  it  was  always  with  the  purpose  of  giving  its  scientific 
sections  with  farther  illustration  in  ^Deucalion’  and  ^Proser- 
pina,’ and  extracts  from  those  relating  to  art  and  education  in 
my  Oxford  Lectures.  But  finding,  usually,  for  these  last,  sub- 
jects more  immediately  interesting;  and  seeing  that  Deucalion 
and  Proserpina  have  quite  enough  to  do  in  their  own  way — for 
the  time  they  have  any  chance  of  doing  it  in — I am  indeed 
minded  now  to  reprint  the  three  scientific  sections  of  ^Modern 
Painters’  in  their  original  terms,  which,  very  thankfully  I 
find,  cannot  much  be  bettered,  for  what  they  intend  or 
attempt.  The  scientific  portions,  divided  prospectively,  in  the 
first  volume,  into  four  sections,  were  meant  to  define  the  essen- 
tial forms  of  sky,  earth,  water,  and  vegetation  : but  finding 
that  I had  not  the  mathematical  knowledge  required  for  tne 
analysis  of  wave-action,  the  chapters  on  Sea-painting  were 
never  finished,  the  materials  for  them  being  partly  used  in  the 
‘Harbours  of  England,’  and  the  rest  of  the  design  remitted 
till  I could  learn  more  dynamics.  But  it  was  never  aban- 
doned, and  the  corrections  already  given  in  ‘ Deucalion  ’ of 
the  errors  of  Agassiz  and  Tyndall  on  the  glacier  theory,  are 
based  on  studies  of  wave-motion  which  I hope  still  to  complete 
the  detail  of  in  that  work. 

My  reprints  from  ‘ Modern  Painters  ’ will  therefore  fall 
only  into  three  divisions,  on  the  origin  of  form  in  clouds, 
mountains,  and  trees.  They  will  be  given  in  the  pages  and 


iv 


PKEFACE. 


type  now  chosen  for  my  Oxford  Lectures ; and  the  two  lec- 
tures on  existing  Storm-cloud  already  published  will  form  a 
proper  introduction  to  the  cloud-studies  of  former  times,  of 
which  the  first  number  is  already  in  the  press.  In  like  man- 
ner, the  following  paper,  prepared  to  be  read  before  the  Min- 
eralogical  Society  on  the  occasion  of  their  meeting  in  Edinburgh 
this  year,  and  proposing,  in  brief  abstract,  the  questions  which 
are  at  the  root  of  rock-science,  may  not  unfitly  introduce  the 
chapters  of  geological  enquiry,  begun  at  the  foot  of  the  Matter- 
horn thirty  years  ago,  enquiries  which  were  the  proper  sequel 
of  those  instituted  by  Saussure,  and  from  which  the  fury  of 
investigation  in  extinct  zoology  has  since  so  far  diverted  tho 
attention  of  mineralogists,  that  I have  been  virtually  left  to 
pursue  them  alone  ; not  without  some  results,  for  which,  forti- 
fied as  they  are  by  the  recent  advance  of  rock-chemistry,  I 
might  claim,  did  I care  to  claim,  the  dignity  of  Discoveries. 
For  the  separate  enumeration  of  these,  the  reader  is  referred 
to  the  postscript  to  the  opening  paper. 

The  original  woodcuts  will  all  be  used  in  this  edition,  but  in 
order  not  to  add  to  the  expense  of  the  republished  text,  I have 
thought  it  best  that  such  of  the  steel  plates  as  are  still  in  a 
state  to  give  fair  impressions,  should  be  printed  and  bound 
apart ; purchaseable  either  collectively  or  in  separate  parts, 
illustrative  of  the  three  several  sections  of  text.  These  will  be 
advertised  when  ready. 

The  text  of  the  old  book,  as  in  the  already  reprinted  second 
volume,  will  be  in  nothing  changed,  and  only  occasionally  ex- 
plained or  amplified  by  notes  in  brackets. 

It  is  also  probable  that  a volume  especially  devoted  to  the 
subject  of  Education  may  be  composed  of  passages  gathered 
out  of  the  entire  series  of  my  works  ; and  since  the  parts  of 
‘Modern  Painters’  bearing  on  the  principles  of  art  will  be 
incorporated  in  the  school  lectures  connected  with  my  duty  at 
Oxford,  whatever  is  worth  preservation  in  the  whole  book  will 
be  thus  placed  at  the  command  of  the  public. 

Brantwood, 
l^th  September,  1884. 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OF  THE  DISTINCTIONS  OF  FORM  IN  SILICA. 

{Read  before  the  Mineralogical  Society,  July  %Mh,  1884.) 

As  this  paper,  by  the  courtesy  of  the  secretaries,  stands  first 
on  the  list  of  those  to  be  read  at  the  meeting,  I avail  myself 
of  the  privilege  thus  granted  me  of  congratulating  the  Soci- 
ety on  this  occasion  of  its  meeting  in  the  capital  of  a country 
which  is  itself  one  magnificent  mineralogical  specimen,  reach- 
ing from  Cheviot  to  Cape  Wrath;  thus  gathering  into  the  most 
convenient  compass,  and  presenting  in  the  most  instructive 
forms,  examples  of  nearly  every  mineralogical  process  and 
phenomenon  which  have  taken  place  in  the  construction  of 
the  world. 

May  I be  permitted,  also,  to  felicitate  myself,  on  the 
permission  thus  given  me,  to  bring  before  tlie  Mineralogical 
Society  a question  which,  in  Edinburgh  of  all  cities  of  the 
world,  it  should  be  easiest  to  solve,  namely,  the  methods  of 
the  construction  and  painting  of  a Scotch  pebble  ? 

I am  the  more  happy  in  this  unexpected  privilege,  because, 
though  an  old  member  of  the  Geological  Society,  my  geolog- 
ical observations  have  always  been  as  completely  ignored  by 
that  Society,  as  my  remarks  on  political  economy  by  the 
Directors  of  the  Bank  of  England  ; and  although  I have 
repeatedly  solicited  from  them  the  charity  of  their  assistance  in 
so  small  a matter  as  the  explanation  of  an  agate  stone  on  the 
forefinger  of  an  alderman,  they  still,  as  I stated  the  case  in 


m MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


closing  my  first  volume  of  ^ Deucalion/  discourse  on  the  catas- 
trophes of  chaos,  and  the  processes  of  creation,  without  being 
able  to  tell  why  a slate  splits,  or  how  a pebble  is  coloured. 

Pebble, — or  crystal ; here  in  Scotland  the  main  questions 
respecting  these  two  main  forms  of  silica  are  put  to  us,  with  a 
close  solicitude,  by  the  beautiful  conditions  of  agate,  and  the 
glowing  colours  of  the  Cairngorm,  v/hich  have  always  varie- 
gated and  illuminated  the  favourite  jewellery  of  Scottish  laird 
and  lassie. 

May  1 hope,  with  especial  reference  to  the 
‘‘  favourite  gem 

Of  Scotland’s  mountain  diadem/’ 

to  prevail  on  some  Scottish  mineralogist  to  take  up  the 
hitherto  totally  neglected  subject  of  the  relation  of  colour  in 
minerals  to  their  state  of  substance  : why,  for  instance,  large 
and  well-developed  quartz  crystals  are  frequently  topaz  colour 
or  smoke  colour, — never  rose-colour  ; while  massive  quartz 
may  be  rose-colour,  and  pure  white  or  grey,  but  never  smoke 
colour ; — again,  why  amethyst  quartz  may  continually,  as  at 
Schemnitz  and  other  places,  be  infinitely  complex  and  multi- 
plex in  crystallization,  but  never  w^arped  ; while  smoky  quartz 
may  be  continually  found  warped,  but  never,  in  the  amethys- 
tine way,  multiplex  ; — why,  again,  smoky  quartz  and  Cairngorm 
are  continually  found  in  short  crystals,  but  never  in  long 
slender  ones, — as,  to  take  instance  in  another  mineral,  white 
beryl  is  usually  short  or  even  tabular,  and  green  beryl  long, 
almost  in  proportion  to  its  purity  ? 

And,  for  the  better  solution,  or  at  least  proposition,  of  the 
many  questions,  such  as  these,  hitherto  undealt  with  by 
science,  might  I also  hope  that  the  efforts  of  the  Mineralogical 
Society  may  be  directed,  among  other  quite  feasible  objects 
not  yet  attained,  to  the  formation  of  a museum  of  what  might 
be  called  mineral-geology,  showing  examples  of  all  familiar 
minerals  in  association  with  their  native  rocks,  on  a sufficiently 
large  and  intelligible  scale.  There  may  be,  perhaps,  by  this 
time,  in  the  museum  of  Edinburgh, — but  there  is  not  in  the 


OF  THE  DISTI]SrCTIONS  OF  FOKM  IK  SILICA. 


British  Museum,  nor  have  I ever  myself  seen, — either  a speci- 
men of  pure  Cairngorm  in  the  gangue,  or  a block  of  trap 
containing  agates  of  really  high  quality,  whether  from  Scot- 
land, Germany,  or  India. 

Knowing  the  value  of  time  to  the  meeting,  I leave  this,  to 
my  thinking,  deeply  important  subject  of  the  encouragement 
of  geognostic  mineralogy,  to  their  own  farther  consideration  ; 
and  pass  to  a point  of  terminology  which  is  of  extreme  sig- 
nificance in  the  study  of  siliceous  minerals,  namely,  the  de- 
sirableness, and  I should  myself  even  say  the  necessity,  of 
substituting  the  term  ^spheroidal’  for  ^reniform’  in  minera- 
logical  description.  Every  so-called  ‘ kidney-shaped  ’ mineral 
is  an  aggregate  of  spheroidal  crystallizations,  and  it  would  be 
just  as  rational  and  elegant  to  call  sea-foam  kidney-shaped,  as 
to  call  chalcedony  so.  The  word  ‘ Botryoidal  ’ is  yet  more 
objectionable,  because  it  is  wholly  untrue.  There  are  many 
minerals  that  resemble  kidneys ; but  there  is  no  substance  in 
the  whole  mineral  kingdom  that  resembles  a bunch  of  grapes. 
The  pisolitic  aggregations  which  a careless  observer  might 
think  grape-like,  are  only  like  grape  sliot^  and  lie  in  heaps,  not 
clusters. 

But  the  change  I would  propose  is  not  a matter  of  mere 
accuracy  or  elegance  in  description.  For  want  of  observing 
that  the  segmental  surfaces  of  so-called  reniform  and  botryoi- 
dal minerals  are  spheroidal,  the  really  crystalline  structure  pro- 
ducing that  external  form  has  been  overlooked,  and  in  conse- 
quence, minerals  have  been  continually  described  either  as 
amorphous,  or  as  mixtures  of  different  substances,  which  are 
neither  formless  nor  mingled,  but  are  absolutely  defined  in 
structure,  and  absolutely  homogeneous  in  substance. 

There  are  at  least  six  states  of  siliceous  substance  which  are 
thus  entirely  distinct, — flint,  jasper,  chalcedony,  hyalite,  opal, 
and  quartz.  They  are  only  liable  to  be  confused  with  each 
other  in  bad  specimens  ; each  has  its  own  special  and  separate 
character,  and  needs  peculiar  circumstances  for  its  production 
and  development.  The  careful  history  of  the  forms  of  these 
six  minerals,  and  the  careful  collection  of  the  facts  respecting 


4 


IlSr  MOKTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


the  mode  of  their  occurrence,  would  require  a volume  as  large 
as  any  that  are  usually  issued  by  way  of  complete  systems  of 
mineralogy.  Whereas,  suflScient  account  is  usually  supposed 
to  be  rendered  of  them  in  a few  sentences,  and  moreover 
every  sentence  of  these  concise  abstracts  usually  contains,  or 
implies,  an  unchallenged  fallacy. 

I take,  for  example,  from  the  account  of  chalcedonic  vari 
eties  of  quartz”  given  in  Dana’s  octavo  of  456  close-printed 
pages,  (Trubner,  1879), — the  entire  account  occupies  no  more 
than  a page  and  three  lines, — the  following  sentences  : — 

“ Chalcedony  often  occurs  lining  or  filling  cavities  in  amyg- 
daloidal  rocks,  and  sometimes  in  other  kinds.  These  cavities 
are  nothing  but  little  caverns,  into  which  siliceous  waters  have 
filtrated  at  some  period.  The  stalactites  are  ^ icicles  ’ of  chal- 
cedony, hung  from  the  roof  of  the  cavity. 

Agate,  a variegated  chalcedony.  The  colours  are  distrib- 
uted in  clouds,  spots,  or  concentric  lines.  These  lines  take 
straight,  circular,  or  zig-zag  forms,  and  when  the  last,  it  is 
called  fortification  agate,  so  named  from  the  resemblance  to 
the  angular  outlines  of  a fortification.  These  lines  are  the 
edges  of  layers  of  chalcedony,  and  these  layers  are  successive 
deposits  during  the  process  of  its  formation. 

Mocha  stone,  or  moss  agate,  is  a brownish  agate,  consisting 
of  chalcedony  with  dentritic  or  moss-like  delineations,  of  an 
opaque  yellowish  brown  colour.” 

Now,  with  respect  to  the  first  of  these  statements,  it  is  true 
that  cavities  in  amygdaloidal  rocks  are  nothing  but  little 
caverns,  just  as  caverns  in  any  rocks  are  nothing  but  large  cavi- 
ties. But  the  rocks  are  called  ^ amygdaloidal,’  because  their 
cavities  are  in  the  shape  of  almonds,  and  there  must  be  a reason 
for  this  almond  shape,  which  will  bear  on  the  structure  of 
their  contents.  It  is  also  true  that  in  the  rocks  of  Iceland 
there  are  cavities  lined  with  stalactites  of  chalcedony.  But  I 
believe  no  member  of  this  Society  has  ever  seen  a cavity  in 
Scotch  trap  lined  with  stalactites  of  chalcedony  ; nor  a Scotch 
pebble  which  gave  the  slightest  evidence  of  the  direction  of 
its  infiltration. 


OF  THE  DISTIi^-CTIONS  OF  FORM  IK  SILICA. 


5 


The  second  sentence  is  still  more  misleading,  for  in  no  sense 
is  it  true  that  agate  is  a ^ variegated  chalcedony.’  It  is  chal- 
cedony sejiarated  into  bands  of  various  consistence,  and  associ- 
ated with  parallel  bands  of  jasper  and  quartz.  And  whether 
these  bands  are  successive  deposits  during  the  process  of 
formation  or  not,  must  be  questionable  until  we  produce  the 
resemblance  of  an  agate  by  a similar  operation,  whicli  I would 
very  earnestly  request  some  of  the  members  of  the  Minera- 
logical  Society  to  do,  before  allowing  statements  of  this  posi- 
tive kind  to  be  made  on  the  subject  in  popular  text-books. 

The  third  sentence  confounds  Mocha  stone  with  moss  agate, 
they  being  entirely  different  minerals.  The  delineations  in 
Mocha  stone  are  dendritic,  and  produced  by  mechanical  dis- 
semination of  metallic  oxides,  easily  imitable  by  dropping 
earthy  colours  into  paste.  But  moss  agates  are  of  two  kinds, 
brown  and  green,  the  one  really  like  moss,  the  other  filiform 
and  like  seaweed ; and  neither  of  them  is  at  present  explicable 
or  imitable. 

The  inaccuracy  of  the  statements  thus  made  in  so  elaborate 
a work  on  mineralogy  as  Dana’s,  may,  I think,  justify  me  in 
asking  the  attention  of  the  Mineralogical  Society  to  the  dis- 
tinctions in  the  forms  of  silica  which  they  will  find  illustrated 
by  the  chosen  examples  from  my  own  collection,  placed  on 
the  table  for  their  inspection.  I place,  first,  side  by  side,  No, 
1,  the  rudest,  and  No,  Y,  the  most  delicate,  conditions  of  pure 
chalcedony ; the  first,  coarsely  spheroidal,  and  associated  with 
common  flint ; the  second,  filiform,  its  threads  and  rods  com- 
bining into  plates, — each  rod,  on  close  examination,  being  seen 
to  consist  of  associated  spheroidal  concretions. 

Next  to  these  I place  No,  2,  a common  small-globed  chal- 
cedony formed  on  the  common  quartzite  of  South  England, 
with  opaque  concentric  zones  developing  themselves  subse- 
quently over  its  translucent  masses.  I have  not  the  slightest 
idea  how  any  of  these  three  specimens  can  have  been  formed, 
and  simply  lay  them  before  the  Society  in  hope  of  receiving 
some  elucidatory  suggestions  about  them. 

My  ignorance  need  not  have  remained  so  abject,  had  my 


6 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


other  TTork  left  me  leisure  to  follow  out  the  deeply  interesting 
experiments  instituted  by  Mr.  E.  A.  Pankhurst  and  Mr.  J. 
I’ Anson,  of  which  the  first  results,  being  indeed  the  beginning 
of  the  true  history  of  silica,  were  published  by  those  gentlemen 
in  the  ^ Mineralogical  Magazine  ’ for  18^82.  I have  laid  their 
paper,  kindly  then  communicated  to  me,  on  the  table,  for 
immediate  comparison  of  its  plates  with  the  specimens,  and  I 
have  arranged  the  first  two  groups  of  these,  adopting  from 
that  paper  the  terms  exogenous  and  endogenous,  for  the  two 
great  families  of  agates,  so  as  to  illustrate  the  principal  state- 
ments made  in  its  pages. 

It  would  materially  facilitate  the  pursuit  of  their  discoveries 
if  some  of  the  members  of  the  Society  would  register  and 
describe  the  successive  phenomena  of  crystallization  in  any 
easily  soluble  or  fusible  minerals.  The  history  of  a mineral  is 
not  given  by  ascertainment  of  the  number  or  the  angles  of  the 
planes  of  its  crystals,  but  by  ascertaining  the  manner  in  which 
those  crystals  originate,  increase,  and  associate.  The  ordinary 
mineralogist  is  content  to  tell  us  that  gold,  silver,  and  diamond 
are  all  cubic ; — it  is  for  the  mineralogist  of  the  future  to  say 
why  gold  associates  its  countless  cubes  into  arborescent  lami- 
nge,  and  silver  into  capillary  wreaths  ; while  diamond  con- 
demns its  every  octahedron  to  monastic  life,  and  never,  except 
by  accident,  permits  one  of  them  to  crystallize  beside  another. 

At  pages  5 and  6 of  Mr.  J.  I’ Anson’s  paper  will  be  found 
explanations,  more  or  less  complete,  of  the  forms  which  I have 
called  folded  ^ agates  ’ and  ^ lake  ’ agates,  reaching  to  No.  40. 
The  specimens  from  40  to  60  then  illustrate  the  conditions  of 
siliceous  action  which  I am  still  alone  among  modern  miner- 
alogists in  my  mode  of  interpreting. 

The  minor  points  of  debate  concerning  them  are  stated  in 
the  descriptions  of  each  in  the  catalogue ; but  there  are  some 
examples  among  them  from  which  branch  lines  of  observation 
leading  far  beyond  the  history  of  siliceous  pebbles.  To  these 
1 venture  here  to  direct  your  special  attention. 

No.  3 is  a fragment  of  black  fiint  on  which  blue  chalcedony 
is  deposited  as  a film  extending  itself  in  circles,  exactly  like 


OF  THE  DISTINCTION'S  OF  FORM  IN  SILICA. 


7 


tlie  growtli  of  some  lichens.  I have  never  seen  this  form  of 
chalcedony  solidify  from  circles  into  globes,  and  it  is  evident 
that  for  this  condition  we  must  use  the  term  ‘cycloidal,’ 
instead  of  ‘ spheroidal.’  I need  not  point  out  that  ‘ reniform  ’ 
would  be  here  entirely  absurd. 

This  apparently  common  specimen,  (and,  as  far  as  regards 
frequency  of  occurrence,  indeed  common  enough,)  is  never- 
theless one  of  the  most  profoundly  instructive  of  the  whole 
series.  It  is,  to  begin  with,  a perfect  type  of  the  finest  possi- 
ble fAnt^  properly  so  called.  Its  surface,  eminently  charac- 
teristic of  the  forms  of  fiint-concretion,  is  literally  a white  dust 
of  organic  fragments,  while  the  narrow  fissure  which  has 
opened  in  it,  apparently  owing  to  the  contraction  of  its  mass, 
is  besprinkled  and  studded,  as  closely,  with  what  might  not 
unfitly  be  called  pearl-chalcedony,  or  seed-chalcedony,  or  hail- 
chalcedony  ; for  seen  through  the  lens,  it  exactly  resembles 
the  grains  of  minute  hail,  sticking  together  as  they  melt ; in 
places,  forming  very  solid  crests, — in  others,  and  especially  in 
the  rifted  fissure,  stalactites,  possibly  more  or  less  vertical  to 
the  plane  in  which  the  fiint  lay. 

In  No.  5 the  separation  into  concentric  films  is  a condition 
peculiar  to  flint-chalcedony,  and  never  found  in  true  agates. 

In  No.  6 (chalcedony  in  stalactitic  coats,  on  amethyst)  the 
variation  of  the  stalactites  in  direction,  and  their  modes  of 
agglutination,  are  alike  unintelligible. 

No.  8 is  only  an  ordinary  specimen  of  chalcedony  on 
hseniatite,  in  short,  closely  combined  vertical  stalactites,  each 
with  a central  stalactite  of  black  iron-oxide ; but  it  is  to  be 
observed,  in  comparing  it  with  No.  6,  that  when  chalcedony 
is  thus  formed  on  rods  of  haematite,  the  stalactites  are  almost 
unexceptionally  vertical,  and  quite  straight.  The  radiate 
ridge  at  one  side  of  this  example  is,  however,  entirely  anoma- 
lous. 

No.  9.  The  succeeding  specimen,  though  small,  is  a notable 
one,  consisting  of  extremely  minute  and  delicate  shells  or 
crusts  of  spheroidal  haematite,  establishing  themselves  in  the 
heart  of  quartz.  I have  no  idea  of  the  method,  or  successions 


8 


m MOKTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


in  time,  of  tins  process.  These  I leave  to  the  consideration  of 
the  Society,  but  I point  to  the  specimen  as  exquisitely  exhibit- 
ing tlie  laws  of  true  spheroidal  crystallization,  in  a mineral 
which  botli  in  its  massive  and  crystalline  state  is  continually 
associated  with  quartz.  And  it  cannot  but  be  felt  that  this 
spheroidal  structure  of  haematite  could  as  little  be  explained 
by  calling  or  supposing  it  a mixture  of  micaceous  haematite 
with  amorphous  haematite,  as  that  of  chalcedony  by  calling  it 
a mixture  of  hexagonal  with  amorphous  quartz. 

No.  10.  Next  follows  a beautiful  and  perfectly  character- 
istic example  of  massively  spheroidal  agate,  in  which  first  grey 
and  then  white  chalcedony,  peculiarly  waved  and  faulted  by  a 
tendency  to  become  quartz,  surrounds  earthy  centres,  and  is 
externally  coated  with  pure  quartz.  And  here  I must  ask  the 
Society  to  ratify  for  me  the  general  law,  that  in  all  solid  glo- 
bular or  stalactitic  conditions  of  chalcedony,  if  any  foreign 
substance  occurs  mixed  with  them,  it  is  thrown  to  their  cen- 
tres, while  the  pure  quartz  is  always  found  on  the  outside.'^ 
On  the  other  hand,  the  usual  condition  of  geodes  of  chalce- 
dony found  in  the  cavities  of  rocks,  is  to  purify  themselves 
towards  the  interior,  and  either  coat  themselves  with  quartz 
on  the  interior  surface,  or  entirely  fill  the  central  cavity  with 
quartz. 

No.  46  is  a most  literally  amygdaloidal, — almond-shaped — 
mass  of  silica;  only,  not  poured  into  an  almond-shaped  cavity 
in  basalt,  but  gathered  into  a knot  out  of  Jurassic  limestone, 
as  flint  is  out  of  chalk. 

It  is,  however,  banded  quite  otherwise  than  flint,  the  bands 
giving  occasion  to  its  form,  and  composed  of  different  sub- 
stances. Whereas  those  of  flint  are  of  the  flint  itself  in  differ- 
ent states,  and  always  independent  of  external  form. 

Secondly.  It  seems  to  me  a question  of  considerable  inter- 
est, why  the  coarse  substance  of  flint  and  of  this  dull  hornstone 
can  be  stained  with  black,  but  not  chalcedony,  nor  quartz. 


* It  is  to  be  noticed  also  that  often  in  stalactitic  or  tubular  concretions  the 
purest  chalcedony  immediately  surrounds  the  centre. 


OF  THE  DISTINCTION’S  OF  FOliM  IN  SILICA. 


9 


The  blackest  so-called  quartz  is  only  a clear  umber,  and  opaque 
quartz  is  never  so  stained  at  all.  Natural  black  onyx  is  of 
extreme  rarity,  the  onxy  of  commerce  being  artificially  stained  ; 
the  black  band  in  the  lake  agate.  No.  32,  is  probably  bitumin- 
ous. And  in  connection  with  this  part  of  the  enquiry,  it 
seems  to  be  the  peculiar  duty  of  the  mineralogist  to  explain 
the  gradual  darkening  of  the  limestones  towards  the  central 
metamorphic  chains. 

Thirdly,  and  principally.  This  stone  gives  us  an  example  of 
waved  or  contorted  strata  which  are  unquestionably  produced 
by  concretion  and  partial  crystallization,  not  compression,  or 
any  kind  of  violence.  I shall  take  occasion,  in  concluding,  to 
insist  farther  on  the  extreme  importance  of  this  character. 

The  specimen  was  found  by  my  good  publisher,  Mr.  Allen, 
on  the  southern  slope  of  the  Saleve ; and  it  is  extremely 
desirable  that  geologists  in  Gavoy  should  obtain  and  describe 
more  pebbles  of  the  same  sort,  this  one  being,  as  far  as  my 
knowledge  goes,  hitherto  unique. 

71 — 77.  These  seven  examples  of  opal  have  been  chosen 
merely  to  illustrate  farther  the  modes  of  siliceous  solution  and 
segregation,  not  with  that  of  illustrating  opal  itself, — every 
one  of  the  seven  examples  presenting  phenomena  more  or  less 
unusual.  The  two  larger  blocks,  71,  72,  (Australian)  give 
examples  in  one  or  two  places  of  obscurely  nodular  and  hollow 
concretion,  before  unknown  in  opal,  but  of  which  a wonder- 
ful specimen,  partly  with  a vitreous  superficial  glaze,  has  been 
sent  me  by  Mr.  Henry  Willett,  of  Arnold  House,  Brighton,  a 
most  accurate  investigator  of  the  history  of  silica.  It  is  to  be 
carefully  noted,  however,  that  the  moment  the  opal  shows  a 
tendency  to  nodular  concretion,  its  colours  vanish. 

No.  73  is  sent  only  as  an  example  of  the  normal  state  of 
Australian  opal,  disseminated  in  a rock  of  which  it  seems 
partly  to  have  opened  for  itself  the  shapeless  spaces  it  fills. 
In  No.  71,  it  may  be  observed,  there  is  a tendency  in  them  to 
become  tabular.  No.  74,  an  apparently  once  fluent  state  of 
opal  in  veins,  shows  in  perfection  the  arrangement  in  straight 
zones  trcmsverse  to  the  vein,  which  I pointed  out  in  my  ear- 


10 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


liest  papers  on  silica  as  a constant  distinctive  character  in 
opal-crystallization.  No.  75  is  the  only  example  I ever  saw 
of  stellar  crystallization  in  opal.  No.  76,  from  the  same  local- 
ity, is  like  a lake  agate  associated  with  a hrecciate  condition 
of  the  gangue  ; while  No.  77,  tliough  small,  will  be  found  an 
extremely  interesting  example  of  hydrophane.  The  blue 
bloom  seen  in  some  lights  on  it,  when  dry,  as  opposed  to  the 
somewhat  vulgar  vivacity  of  its  colours  when  wet,  is  a perfect 
example  of  the  opal’s  faculty  of  selecting  for  its  lustre  the 
most  lovely  combinations  of  the  separated  rays.  A diamond, 
or  a piece  of  fissured  quartz,  refiects  indiscriminately  all  the 
colours  of  the  prism ; an  opal,  only  those  which  are  most 
delightful  to  human  sight  and  mental  association. 

78 — 80.  These  three  geological  specimens  are  placed  at  the 
term  of  the  series,  that  the  importance  of  the  structure  already 
illustrated  by  No.  46  may  be  finally  represented  to  the  Society ; 
No.  46  being  an  undulated  chalcedony;  No.  78,  an  undulated 
jasper;  No.  79,  a hornstone ; and  No.  80  a fully  developed 
gneiss. 

I have  no  hesitation  in  affirming, — though  it  is  not  usual 
with  me  to  affirm  anything  I have  not  seen,  and  seen  close, — 
that  every  one  of  these  types  of  undulated  structure  has  been 
produced  by  crystallization  only,  and  absolutely  without  com- 
pression or  violence.  But  the  transition  from  the  contorted 
gneiss  which  has  been  formed  by  crystallization  only,  to  that 
which  has  been  subjected  to  the  forces  of  upheaval,  or  of 
lateral  compression,  is  so  gradual  and  so  mysterious,  that  all 
the  chemistry  and  geology  of  modern  science  is  hitherto  at 
fault  in  its  explanation;  and  this  meeting  would  confer  a 
memorable  benefit  on  future  observers  by  merely  determining 
for  them  the  conditions  of  the  problem.  Up  to  a certain 
point,  however,  these  were  determined  by  Saussure,  from 
whose  frequent  and  always  acutely  distinct  descriptions  of 
contorted  rocks  I select  the  following,  because  it  refers  to  a 
scene  of  which  the  rock  structure  was  a subject  of  constant 
interest  to  the  painter  Turner;  the  ravine,  namely,  by  which. 


OF  THE  DISTIKCTIOKS  OF  FOKM  SILICA. 


11 


on  the  Italian  side  of  tlie  St.  Gotliard,  the  Ticino  escapes  from 
the  valley  of  Airolo. 

At  a league  from  Faido  the  traveller  ascends  by  a road 
carried  on  a cornice  above  the  Ticino,  which  precipitates  itself 
between  the  rocks  with  the  greatest  violence.  I made  the 
ascent  on  foot,  in  order  to  examine  wdth  care  the  beautiful 
rocks,  worthy  of'  all  the  attention  of  a rock-lover.  Tlie  veins 
of  that  granite  form  in  many  places  redoubled  zig-zags,  pre- 
cisely like  the  ancient  tapestries  known  as  point  of  Hungary, 
and  there  it  is  impossible  to  say  whether  the  veins  of  the 
stone  are,  or  are  not,  parallel  to  the  beds;  while  finally  I 
observed  several  beds  which  in  the  middle  of  their  thickness 
appeared  filled  with  veins  in  zig-zag,  while  near  their  borders 
they  were  arranged  all  in  straight  lines.  This  observation 
proves  that  the  zig-zags  are  the  effect  of  crystallization,  and 
not  that  of  a compression  of  the  beds  when  they  were  in  a 
state  of  softness.  In  effect,  the  middle  of  a bed  could  not  be 
pushed  together  refoule  unless  the  upper  and  lower  parts 
of  it  were  pushed  at  the  same  time.” 

This  conclusive  remark  of  Saussure  renders  debate  impossi- 
ble respecting  the  cause  of  the  contortions  of  gneiss  on  a small 
scale ; and  a very  few  experiments  with  clay,  dough,  or  any 
other  ductile  substance,  such  as  those  of  wdiich  I have  figured 
the  results  in  the  Vlth  plate  of  ^ Deucalion,’  will  prove,  what 
otherwise  is  evident  on  sufficient  refiection,  that  minutely 
rhythmic  undulations  of  beds  cannot  be  obtained  by  compres- 
sion on  a large  scale.  But  I am  myself  prepared  to  go  much 
farther  than  this.  During  half  a century  of  various  march 
among  the  Alps,  I never  saw  the  gneiss  yet,  which  I could 
believe  to  have  been  wrinkled  by  pressure,  and  so  far  am  I 
disposed  to  carry  this  denial  of  external  force,  that  I live  in 
hopes  of  hearing  the  Matterhorn  itself,  whose  contorted  beds 
I engraved  thirty  years  ago  in  the  fourth  volume  of  ^ Modern 
Painters  ’ (the  book  is  laid  on  the  table,  open  at  the  plate), 
pronounced  by  the  Mineralogical  Society  to  be  nothing  else 
than  a large  gneissitic  crystal,  curiously  cut ! 


12 


Iiq-  MOKTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


Whether  this  hope  be  vain  or  not,  I believe  it  will  soon  be 
felt  by  the  members  of  this  Society,  that  an  immense  field  of 
observation  is  opened  to  them  by  recent  chemistry,  peculiarly 
their  own : and  that  mineralogy,  instead  of  being  merely  the 
servant  of  geology,  mnst  be  ultimately  her  guide.  No  move- 
ment of  rocks  on  a large  scale  can  ever  be  explained  until  we 
understand  rightly  the  formation  of  a quartz  vein,  and  the 
growth,  to  take  the  most  familiar  of  fusible  minerals,  of  an 
ice-crystal.* 

And  I would  especially  plead  with  the  younger  members  of 
the  Society,  that  they  should  quit  themselves  of  the  idea  that 
they  need  large  laboratories,  fine  microscopes,  or  rare  minerals, 
for  the  effective  pursuit  of  their  science.  A quick  eye,  a 
candid  mind,  and  an  earnest  heart,  are  all  the  microscopes  and 
.laboratories  which  any  of  us  need ; and  with  a little  clay,  sand, 
salt,  and  sugar,  a man  may  find  out  more  of  the  methods  of 
geological  phenomenon  than  ever  were  known  to  Sir  Charles 
Lyell.  Of  the  interest  and  entertainment  of  such  unpretend- 
ing science  I hope  the  children  of  this  generation  may  know 
more  than  their  fathers,  and  that  the  study  of  the  Earth,  which 
hitherto  has  shown  them  little  more  than  the  monsters  of  a 
chaotic  past,  may  at  last  interpret  for  them  the  beautiful 
work  of  the  creative  present,  and  lead  them  day  by  day  to 
find  a loveliness,  till  then  unthought  of,  in  the  rock,  and  a 
value,  till  then  uncounted,  in  the  gem. 


* A translation  into  English  of  Dr.  Schumacher’s  admirable  essay,  “ Die 
Krystallisation  des  Eises,”  Leipzig,  1844,  is  extremely  desirable. 


POSTSOKIPT  TO  CHAPTEE  L 


I believe  that  one  of  the  causes  which  has  prevented  my  writings  on  sub- 
jects of  science  from  obtaining  the  influence  vdth  the  public  which  the}^  have 
accorded  to  those  on  art,  though  precisely  the  same  faculties  of  eye  anO  mind 
are  concerned  in  the  analysis  of  natural  and  of  pictorial  forms,  m^y  have 
been  my  constant  practice  of  teaching  by  question  rather  than  assertion.  So 
far  as  I am  able,  I will  henceforward  mend  this  fault  as  I best  may  , begin- 
ning here  with  the  assertion  of  the  four  facts  for  which,  being  after  long 
observation  convinced  of  them,  I claim  now,  as  I said  in  the  Preface,  the 
dignity  of  Discoveries. 

I.  That  a large  number  of  agates,  and  other  siliceous  substances,  hitherto 
supposed  to  be  rolled  pebbles  in  a conglomerate  paste,  are  in  truth  crystalline 
secretions  out  of  that  paste  in  situ,  as  garnets  out  of  mica-slate. 

II.  That  a large  number  of  agates,  hitherto  supposed  to  be  formed  by 
broken  fragments  of  older  agate,  cemented  by  a gelatinous  chalcedony,  are 
indeed  secretions  out  of  a siliceous  fluid  comaining  miscellaneous  elements, 
and  their  apparent  fractures  are  indeed  produced  by  the  same  kind  of  tran- 
quil division  which  terminates  the  bands  in  banded  flints. 

III.  That  the  contortions  in  gneiss  and  other  metamorphic  rocks,,  constantly 
ascribed  by  geologists  to  pressure,  are  only  modes  of  crystallization. 

And  lY.  That  man}^  of  the  faults  and  contortions  produced  on  a large 
scale  in  metamorphic  rocks,  are  owing  to  the  quiet  operation  of  similar 
causes. 

These  four  principles,  as  aforesaid,  I have  indeed  worked  out  and  dis- 
covered for  myself,  not  in  hasty  rivalry  with  other  mineralogists,  but  con- 
tinually laying  before  them  what  evidence  I had  noted,  and  praying  them 
to  carry  forward  the  inquiry  themselves.  Finding  they  would  not,  I have 
given  much  time  this  year  to  the  collection  of  the  data  in  my  journals,  and 
to  the  arrangement  of  various  collections  of  siliceous  and  metallic  minerals, 
illustrating  such  phenomena,  of  which  the  primary  one  is  that  just  com- 
pleted and  catalogued  in  the  British  Museum,  (Nat.  Hist.),  instituting  there, 
by  the  permission  of  the  Trustees,  the  description  of  specimens  by  separate 
numbers:  the  next  in  importance  is  that  at  St.  George’s  Museum  in  Sheffield; 
the  third  is  one  which  I presented  this  spring  to  the  Museum  of  Kirkcud- 
bright; the  fourth  that  placed  at  St.  David’s  School,  Reigate;  and  a fifth  is 
in  course  of  arrangement  for  the  Mechanics’  Institute  here  at  Coniston;  the 
sixth,  described  in  the  preceding  chapter,  may  probably,  with  some  modifi- 
cation, be  placed  at  Edinburgh,  but  remains  for  the  present  at  Brantwood, 
with  unchanged  numbers. 


14 


IK"  MOKTILUS  SAXCTIS. 


The  six  catalogues  describing  these  collections  will  enable  any  student  to  / 
follow  out  the  history  of  siliceous  minerals  with  reference  to  the  best  possi- 
ble cabinet  examples;  but  for  a guide  to  their  localities  and  the  modes  of 
their  occurrence,  he  will  find  the  following  extracts  from  Pinkerton’s  ‘‘ Te- 
tralogy”* more  useful  than  anything  in  modern  books;  and  I am  entirely 
happy  to  find  that  my  above-claimed  discoveries  were  all  anticipated  by  him, 
and  are  by  his  close  descriptions,  in  all  points  confirmed.  His  general  term 
‘ Glutenitcs,’  for  stones  apparently  formed  of  cemented  fragments,  entirely 
deserves  restoration  and  future  acceptance. 

The  division  of  glutenites  into  bricias  and  pudding-stones,  the  former 
consisting  of  angular  fragments,  the  latter  of  round  or  oval  pebbles,  would 
not  be  unadvisable,  were  it  in  strict  conformity  with  nature.  But  there  are 
many  rocks  of  this  kind;  as,  for  example,  the  celebrated  Egyptian  bricia,  in 
which  the  fragments  are  partly  round  and  partly  angular;  while  the  term 
glutenite  is  liable  to  no  such  objections,  and  the  several  structures  identify 
the  various  substances. 

‘‘The  celebrated  English  pudding-stone,  found  nowhere  in  the  world  but 
in  Hertfordshire,  appears  to  me  to  be  rather  an  original  rock,  foi’ined  in  the 
manner  of  amygdalites,  because  the  pebbles  do  not  seem  to  have  been  rolled 
by  water,  which  would  have  worn  off  the  substances  in  various  directions ; 
while,  on  the  contrary,  the  white,  black,  brown,  or  red  circlets,  are  always 
entire,  and  parallel  with  the  surface,  like  those  of  agates.  Pebbles  therefore, 
instead  of  being  united  to  form  such  rocks,  may,  in  many  circumstances, 
proceed  from  their  decomposition  ; the  circumjacent  sand  also  arising  from 
the  decomposition  of  the  cement. 

“Mountains  or  regions  of  real  glutenite  often,  however,  accompany  the 
skirts  of  extensive  chains  of  mountains,  as  on  the  north-west  and  south-east 
sides  of  the  Grampian  mountains  in  Scotland,  in  which  instance  the  cement 
is  affirmed  by  many  travellers  to  be  ferruginous,  or  sometimes  argillaceous. 
The  largeness  or  minuteness  of  the  pebbles  or  particles  cannot  be  said  to  alter 
the  nature  of  the  substance  ; so  that  a fine  sandstone  is  also  a glutenite,  if 
viewed  by  the  microscope.  They  may  be  divided  into  two  structures  : the 
large-grained,  comprising  bricias  and  pudding-stones  ; and  the  small-grained, 
or  sandstones. 

“At  Dunstafnage,  in  Scotland, f romantic  rocks  of  a singularly  abrupt 
appearance,  in  some  parts  resembling  walls,  are  formed  by  glutenite,  in 
which  the  kernels  consist  of  white  quartz,  with  green  or  black  trap  por- 
phyries, and  basalts. 

“ In  the  Glutenite  from  the  south  of  the  Grampians,  from  Ayrshire,  from 


* Two  vols.  8vo,  Cochrane  & Co.,  Fleet  Street,  1811.  A quite  invaluable  book  for 
clearness  of  description,  usefulness  of  suggestion,  and  extent  of  geognostic  reference. 
It  has  twenty  beautiful  little  vignettes  also,  which  are  models  of  steel  engraving. 

t For  convenience  in  quotation,  I occasionally  alter  Pinkerton’s  phrases, — but,  it  will 
be  found  by  reference  to  the  original,  without  the  slightest  change  in,  or  loss  of,  their 
meaning. 


POSTSCRIPT  TO  CHAPTER  I. 


Inglestone  bridge,  on  the  road  between  Edinburgh  and  Lanark,  tlic  cement 
:s  often  siliceous,  as  in  those  at  the  foot  of  the  Alps  observed  by  Saussure. 

“ Another  Glutenite  consists  of  fragments  of  granite,  cemented  by  trap 

“ Siderous  glutenite,  or  pudding-stone  of  the  most  modern  formation,  is 
formed  around  cannons,  pistols,  and  other  instruments  of  iron,  by  the  sand 
of  the  sea. 

“ Glutenite  of  small  quartz  pebbles,  in  a red  ferruginous  cement,  is  found 
in  the  coal-mines  near  Bristol,  etc. 

“ Porphyritic  bricia  {Linn,  a Gmelin,  247),  from  Dalecarlia  in  Sweden,  and 
Saxony.  Calton-hill,  Edinburgh  ? 

“ The  entirely  siliceous  glutenites  will  comprehend  many  important  sub- 
stances of  various  structures,  from  the  celebrated  Egyptian  bricia,  contain- 
ing large  pebbles  of  jasper,  granite,  and  porphyry,  to  the  siliceous  sand- 
stone of  Stonehenge.  These  glutenites  are  of  various  formations  ; and  the 
pudding-stone  of  England  would  rather  seem,  as  already  mentioned,  to  be 
an  original  rock,  the  pebbles  or  rather  kernels  having  no  appearance  of 
having  been  rolled  in  water.  Patrin*  has  expressed  the  same  idea  concern- 
ing those  pudding-stones  wnich  so  much  embarrassed  Saussure,  as  he  found 
their  beds  in  a vertical  position,  Avhile  he  argues  that  they  could  only  have 
been  formed  on  a horizontal  level.  This  curious  question  might,  as  would 
seem,  be  easily  decided  by  examining  if  the  kernels  have  been  rolled,  or  if, 
on  the  contrary,  they  retain  their  uniform  concentric  tints,  observable  in  the 
pudding-stone  of  England,  and  well  represented  in  the  specimen  which 
Patrin  has  engraved.  But  the  same  idea  had  arisen  to  me  before  I had  seen 
Patrin’s  ingenious  system  of  mineralogy.  In  like  manner  rocks  now  uni- 
versally admitted  to  consist  of  granular  quartz,  or  that  substance  crystallised 
in  the  form  of  sand,  were  formerly  supposed  to  consist  of  sand  agglutin- 
ated. Several  primitive  rocks  contain  glands  of  the  same  substance,  and 
that  great  observer,  Saussure,  has  called  them  Glandulites,  an  useful  de- 
nomination, when  the  glands  are  of  the  same  substance  with  the  rock  ; 
while  Amygdalites  are  those  rocks  which  contain  kernels  of  quite  a differ- 
ent nature.  He  observes,  that  in  such  a rock  a central  point  of  crystalliza- 
tion may  attract  the  circumjacent  matter  into  a round  or  oval  form,  per- 
fectly defined  and  distinct ; while  other  parts  of  the  substance,  having  no 
point  of  attraction,  may  coalesce  into  a mass.  The  agency  of  iron  may  also 
be  suspected,  that  metal,  as  appears  from  its  ores,  often  occurring  in  de- 
tached round  and  oval  forms  of  man}^  sizes,  and  even  a small  proportion 
having  a great  power. 

‘‘  On  the  other  hand,  many  kinds  of  pudding-stone  consist  merely  of 
rounded  pebbles.  Saussure  describes  the  Eigiberg,  near  the  lake  of  Lu- 
cerne, a mountain  not  less  than  5,800  feet  in  height  above  the  sea,  and  said 
io  be  eight  leagues  in  circumference,  which  consists  entirely  of  rolled  peb- 
bles, and  among  them  some  of  pudding-stone,  probably  original,  disposed 
in  regular  layers,  and  imbedded  in  a calcareous  cement.  The  pudding 


* i.  154. 


16 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


rocks  around  the  great  lake  Baikal,  in  the  centre  of  Asia,  present  the  same 
phenomenon  ; but  it  has  not  been  observed  whether  the  fragments  be  of  an 
original  or  derivative  rock. 

“ The  siliceous  sandstones  form  another  important  division  of  this  class. 
They  may  sometimes,  as  already  mentioned,  be  confounded  with  granular 
quartz,  which  must  be  regarded  as  a primary  crystallization.  The  sand, 
which  has  also  been  found  in  micaceous  schistus,  and  at  a vast  depth  in 
many  mines,  may  be  well  regarded  as  belonging  to  this  formation ; for  it  is 
well  known,  that  if  the  crystallization  be  much  disturbed,  the  substance 
will  descend  in  small  irregular  particles. 

“ Siliceous  sandstones  are  far  more  uncommon  than  the  calcareous  or  ar- 
gillaceous. The  limits  of  the  chalk  country  in  England  are  singularly 
marked  by  large  masses  of  siliceous  sandstone,  irregularly  dispersed.  Those 
of  Stonehenge  afford  remarkable  examples  of  the  size  and  nature  of  those 
fragments,  but  the  original  rock  has  not  been  discovered.  Trap  or  basaltin 
often  reposes  on  siliceous  sandstone. 

But  the  most  eminent  and  singular  pudding-stones  are  those  occurring 
in  Egypt,  in  the  celebrated  bricia  of  the  Valley  of  Cosseir,  and  in  the  sili- 
ceous bricia  of  the  same  chain,  in  which  are  imbedded  those  curious  peb- 
bles known  by  the  name  of  Egyptian  jasper ; and  which  also  sometimes 
contain  agates.  Bricias,  with  red  jasper,  also  occur  in  France,  Switzerland, 
and  other  countries  ; but  the  cement  is  friable,  and  they  seldom  take  a good 
polish.  All  these  rocks  present  both  round  and  angular  fragments,  which 
shov/s  that  the  division  into  bricias  and  pudding-stones  cannot  be  accepted : 
a better  division,  when  properly  ascertained,  would  be  into  original  and  de- 
rivative glutenites.  In  a geological  point  of  view,  the  most  remarkable  pud- 
ding-stones, which  might  more  classically  be  called  Kollanites,  from  the 
Greek,*  are  those  which  border  the  chains  of  primitive  mountains,  as  al- 
ready mentioned.  The  English  Hertfordshire  pudding-stone  is  unique  ; and 
beautiful  specimens  are  highly  valued  in  France,  and  other  countries.  It  is 
certainly  an  original  rock,  arising  from  a peculiar  crystallization,  being 
composed  of  round  and  oval  kernels  of  a red,  yellow,  brown,  or  grey  tint, 
in  a base  consisting  of  particles  of  the  same,  united  by  a siliceous  cement. 

“ Of  small-grained  argillaceous  glutenite,  the  most  celebrated  rock  is  the 
Grison,  or  Bergmanite,  just  mentioned,  being  composed  of  grains  of  sand, 
various  in  size,  sometimes  even  kernels  of  quartz ; which,  with  occasional 
bits  of  hard  clay  slate,  are  imbedded  in  an  argillaceous  cement,  of  the  nature 
of  common  grey  clay  slate.  When  the  particles  are  very  fine,  it  assumes 
the  slaty  structure,  and  forms  the  grauwack  slate  of  the  Germans.  It  is  the 
chief  of  Werner’s  transitive  rocks,  nearly  approaching  to  the  primitive ; 
while  at  the  same  time  it  sometimes  contains  shells,  and  other  petrifactions. 

‘‘ This  important  rock  was  formerly  considered  as  being  almost  peculiar 
to  the  ITartz,  where  it  contains  the  richest  mines  ; but  has  since  been  ob- 
served in  many  other  countries.  The  slaty  grison,  or  Bergmanite,  has  been 


* KoAAa,  cement ; the  more  proper,  as  it  also  implies  iron,  often  the  chief  agent. 


POSTSCRIPT  TO  CHAPTER  1. 


17 


confounded  with  a clay  slate  ; and  we  are  obliged  to  Mr.  Jameson  for  the 
following  distinctions  : 1.  It  is  commonly  of  a bluish,  ash,  or  smoke  grey, 
and  rarely  presents  the  greenish  or  light  yellowish  grey  colour  of  primitive 
clay  slate.  2.  Its  lustre  is  sometimes  glimmering  from  specks  of  mica,  but 
it  never  shows  the  silky  lustre  of  clay  slate.  3.  It  never  presents  siderite 
nor  garnets.,  4.  It  alternates  with  massive  grauwack.  But  is  not  the  chief 
distinction  its  aspect  of  a sandstone,  which  has  led  to  the  trivial  French 
name  of  gres-gris,  and  the  English  ruhUe-stone,  which  may  imply  that  it  was 
formed  of  rubbed  fragments,  or  of  the  rubbish  of  other  rocks?  The  frac- 
ture is  also  different ; and  three  specimens  of  various  fineness,  which  I re- 
ceived from  Daubuisson  at  Paris,  could  never  be  confounded  with  clay 
slate. 

“ This  rock  is  uncommonly  productive  of  metals,  not  only  in  beds  but 
also  in  veins,  which  latter  are  frequently  of  great  magnitude.  Thus  al- 
most the  whole  of  the  mines  in  the  Hartz  are  situated  in  greywack.  These 
mines  afford  principally  argentiferous  lead-glance,  which  is  usually  accom- 
panied with  blend,  fahl  ore,  black  silver  ore,  and  copper  pyrites.  A more 
particular  examination  discloses  several  distinct  venigenous  formations  that 
traverse  the  mountains  of  the  Hartz.  The  greywack  of  the  Saxon  Erzge- 
birge, of  the  Rhine  at  Rheinbreidenbach,  Andernach,  etc.,  of  Leogang  in 
Salzburg,  is  rich  in  ores,  particularly  those  of  lead  and  copper.  At  Voros- 
patak  and  Facebay,  in  Transylvania,  the  greywack  is  traversed  by  numer- 
ous small  veins  of  gold.  ” 

These  passages  from  Pinkerton,  with  those  translated  at  p.  9 from  Saus- 
sure,  are  enough  to  do  justice  to  the  clear  insight  of  old  geologists,  respect- 
ing matters  still  at  issue  among  younger  ones  ; and  I must  therefore  ask 
the  reader’s  patience  with  the  hesitating  assertions  in  the  following  chapters 
of  many  points  on  which  a wider  acquaintance  with  the  writings  of  the  true 
Fathers  of  the  science  might  have  enabled  me  to  speak  with  grateful  con- 
fidence. 


2 


18 


m MOm'LBVS  8AKCTIS. 


/ 


CHAPTEK  II. 

THE  DRY  LAND. 

* Modern  Painters,'  Vol.  lY,,  chap.  mi. 

^^And  God  said.,  Let  the  waters  %ohiGh  are  under  the  heaven 
he  gathered  together  unto  one  place^  and  let  the  dry  land  ap- 
pear P 

We  do  not,  perhaps,  often  enough  consider  the  deep  sig- 
nificance of  this  sentence.  We  are  too  apt  to  receive  it  as  the 
description  of  an  event  vaster  only  in  its  extent,  not  in  its 
nature,  than  the  compelling  the  Red  Sea  to  draw  back,  that 
Israel  might  pass  by.  We  imagine  the  Deity  in  like  manner 
rolling  the  waves  of  the  greater  ocean  together  on  an  heap, 
and  setting  bars  and  doors  to  them  eternally. 

But  there  is  a far  deeper  meaning  than  this  in  the  solemn 
words  of  Genesis,  and  in  the  correspondent  verse  of  the  Psalm, 
“ His  hands  prepared  the  dry  land.”  Up  to  that  moment  the 
earth  had  been  void.,  for  it  had  been  without  form.  The 
command  that  the  waters  should  be  gathered.,  was  the  com- 
mand that  the  earth  should  be  sculptured.  The  sea  was  not 
driven  to  his  place  in  suddenly  restrained  rebellion,  but  with- 
drawn to  his  place  in  perfect  and  patient  obedience.  The  dry 
land  appeared,  not  in  level  sands,  forsaken  by  the  surges, 
which  those  surges  might  again  claim  for  their  own  *,  but  in 
range  beyond  range  of  swelling  hill  and  iron  rock,  for  ever  to 
claim  kindred  with  the  firmament,  and  be  companioned  by 
the  clouds  of  heaven. 

2.  What  space  of  time  was  in  reality  occupied  by  the 

day”  of  Genesis,  is  not,  at  present,  of  any  importance  for 
us  to  consider.  By  what  furnaces  of  fire  the  adamant  was 
melted,  and  by  what  wheels  of  earthquake  it  was  torn,  and  by 


THE  DRY  LAND. 


19 


what  teeth  of  glacier*  and  weight  'of  sea-waves  it  was  en- 
graven and  finished  into  its  perfect  form,  we  may  perhaps 
hereafter  endeavour  to  conjecture ; but  here,  as  in  fev/  words 
the  work  is  summed  by  the  historian,  so  in  few  broad  thoughts 
it  should  be  comprehended  by  us  ; and  as  we  read  the  mighty 
sentence,  Let  the  dry  land  appear,’’  we  should  try  to  follow 
the  finger  of  God,  as  it  engraved  upon  the  stone  tables  of  the 
earth  the  letters  and  the  law  of  its  everlasting  form;  as,  gulf 
by  gulf,  the  channels  of  the  deep  were  ploughed  ; and,  cape 
by  cape,  the  lines  were  traced,  with  Divine  foreknowledge,  of 
the  shores  that  were  to  limit  the  nations  ; and,  chain  by  chain, 
the  mountain  walls  were  lengthened  forth,  and  their  founda- 
tions fastened  for  ever ; and  the  compass  was  set  upon  the 
face  of  the  depth,  and  the  fields,  and  the  highest  part  of  the 
dust  of  the  world  were  made  ; and  the  right  hand  of  Christ 
first  strewed  the  snow  on  Lebanon,  and  smoothed  the  slopes 
of  Calvary. 

3.  It  is  not,  I repeat,  always  needful,  in  many  respects  it  is 
not  possible,  to  conjecture  the  manner,  or  the  time,  in  which 
this  work  was  done ; but  it  is  deeply  necessary  for  all  men 
to  consider  the  magnificence  of  the  accomplished  purpose, 
and  the  depth  of  the  wisdom  and  love  which  are  manifested 
in  the  ordinances  of  the  hills.  For  observe,  in  order  to  bring 
the  world  into  the  form  which  it  now  bears,  it  was  not  mere 
SGiilpture  that  w^as  needed ; the  mountains  could  not  stand 
for  a day  unless  they  were  formed  of  materials  altogether 
different  from  those  which  constitute  the  lower  hills,  and  the 
surfaces  of  the  valleys.  A harder  substance  had  to  be  pre- 
pared for  every  mountain  chain  ; yet  not  so  hard  but  that  it 
might  be  capable  of  crumbling*  down  into  earth  fit  to  nourish 
the  Alpine  forest  and  the  Alpine  flower ; not  so  hard  but 
that,  in  the  midst  of  the  utmost  majesty  of  its  enthroned 
strength,  there  should  be  seen  on  it  the  seal  of  death,  and  the 


* Thougli  I bad  already  learned  from  James  Forbes  the  laws  of  glacier 
motion,  I still  fancied  that  ice  could  drive  imbedded  blocks  and  wear  down 
rock  surfaces.  See  for  correction  of  this  error,  ‘ Arrows  of  the  Chase,’  vol 
i..  pp.  255—273,  and  ‘Deucalion,’  passim. 


20 


MOOTIBUS  SAlSrCTIS. 


writing  of  the  same  sentence  that  had  gone  forth  against  tlie 
human  frame,  “ Dust  thou  art,  and  unto  dust  thou  shalt  re- 
turn.” And  with  this  perishable  substance  the  most  majestic 
forms  were  to  be  framed  that  were  consistent  with  the  safety 
of  man ; and  the  peak  was  to  be  lifted,  and  the  cliff  rent,  as 
high  and  as  steeply  as  was  possible,  in  order  yet  to  permit  the 
shepherd  to  feed  his  flocks  upon  the  slope,  and  the  cottage  to 
nestle  beneath  their  shadow. 

4.  And  observe,  two  distinct  ends  were  to  be  accomplished 
in  the  doing  this.  It  was,  indeed,  absolutely  necessary  that 
such  eminences  should  be  created,  in  order  to  fit  the  earth  in 
any  wise  for  human  habitation  : for  without  mountains  the 
air  could  not  be  purified,  nor  the  flowing  of  the  rivers  sus- 
tained, and  the  earth  must  have  become  for  the  most  part 
desert  plain,  or  stagnant  marsh.  But  the  feeding  of  the 
rivers  and  the  purifying  of  the  winds  are  the  least  of  the 
services  appointed  to  the  hills.  To  All  the  thirst  of  the  human 
heart  for  the  beauty  of  God's  working, — to  startle  its  lethargy 
with  the  deep  and  j^ure  agitation  of  astonishment, — are  their 
higher  missions.  They  are  as  a great  and  noble  arcliitecture  ; 
first  giving  shelter,  comfort,  and  rest ; and  covered  also  with 
mighty  sculpture  and  painted  legend.  It  is  impossible  to 
examine  in  their  connected  system  the  features  of  even  the 
most  ordinary  mountain  scenery,  without  concluding  that  it 
has  been  prepared  in  order  to  unite  as  far  as  possible,  and  in 
the  closest  compass,  every  means  of  delighting  and  sanctifying 
the  heart  of  man.  As  far  possible  that  is,  as  far  as 
is  consistent  with  the  fulfilment  of  the  sentence  of  con- 
demnation on  the  whole  earth.  Death  must  be  upon  the 
hills ; and  the  cruelty  of  the  tempests  smite  them,  and  the 
briar  and  thorn  spring  up  upon  them  : but  they  so  smite,  as 
to  bring  their  rocks  into  the  fairest  forms  ; and  so  spring,  as 
to  make  the  very  desert  blossom  as  the  rose.  Even  among 

* Surely  the  mountain  falling  cometh  to  nought,  and  the  rock  is  re- 
moved out  of  his  place.  The  waters  wear  the  stones  : thou  washest  away 
the  things  which  grow  out  of  the  dust  of  the  earth,  and  thou  destroyest  the 
hope  of  man.” — Job  xiv  18,  19. 


THE  DRY  LAKD. 


21 


our  own  liills  of  Scotland  and  Cumberland,  though  often  too 
barren  to  be  perfectly  beautiful,  and  always  too  low  to  be  per- 
fectly sublime,  it  is  strange  how  many  deep  sources  of  delight 
are  gathered  into  the  compass  of  their  glens  and  vales  ; and 
how,  down  to  the  most  secret  cluster  of  their  far-away  flowers, 
and  the  idlest  leap  of  their  straying  streamlets,  the  whole 
heart  of  Nature  seems  thirsting  to  give,  and  still  to  give,  shed- 
ding forth  her  everlasting  beneflcence  with  a profusion  so 
patient,  so  passionate,  that  our  utmost  observance  and  thank- 
fulness are  but,  at  last,  neglect  of  her  nobleness,  and  apathy 
to  her  love. 

But  among  the  true  mountains  of  the  greater  orders  the 
Divine  purpose  of  appeal  at  once  to  all  the  faculties  of  the 
human  spirit  becomes  still  more  manifest.  Inferior  hills  or- 
dinarily interrupt,  in  some  degree,  the  richness  of  the  valleys 
at  their  feet ; the  grey  downs  of  southern  England,  and  tree- 
less coteaux  of  central  France,  and  grey  swells  of  Scottish 
moor,  whatever  peculiar  charm  they  may  possess  in  themselves, 
are  at  least  destitute  of  those  which  belong  to  the  woods  and 
fields,  of  the  lowlands.  But  the  great  mountains  lift  the  low- 
lands on  their  sides.  Let  the  reader  imagine,  first,  the  appear- 
ance of  the  most  varied  plain  of  some  richly  cultivated  coun- 
try ; let  him  imagine  it  dark  wdth  graceful  woods,  and  soft 
with  deepest  pastures ; let  him  All  the  space  of  it,  to  the  ut- 
most horizon,  with  innumerable  and  changeful  incidents  of 
scenery  and  life  ; leading  pleasant  streamlets  through  its  mead- 
ows, strewing  clusters  of  cottages  beside  their  banks,  tracing 
sw^eet  footpaths  through  its  avenues,  and  animating  its  fields 
with  happy  flocks,  and  slow  wandering  spots  of  cattle ; and 
when  he  has  wearied  himself  with  endless  imagining,  and  left 
no  space  without  some  loveliness  ox  its  own,  let  him  conceive 
all  this  great  plain  with  its  infinite  treasures  of  natural  beauty 
and  happy  human  life,  gathered  up  in  God’s  hands  from  one 
edge  of  the  horizon  to  the  other,  like  a woven  garment ; and 
shaken  into  deep  falling  folds,  as  the  robes  droop  from  a king’s 
shoulders ; all  its  bright  rivers  leaping  into  cataracts  along  the 
hollows  of  its  fall,  and  all  its  forests  rearing  themselves  aslant 


22 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


against  its  slopes,  as  a rider  rears  himself  back  when  his  horse 
plunges;  and  all  its  villages  nestling  themselves  into  the  new 
windings  of  its  glens ; and  all  its  pastures  thrown  into  steep 
waves  of  greensward,  dashed  with  dew  along  the  edges  of  their 
folds,  and  sweeping  down  into  endless  slopes,  with  a cloud 
here  and  there  lying  quietly,  half  on  the  grass,  half  in  the  air; 
and  he  will  have  as  yet,  in  all  this  lifted  world,  only  the  foun- 
dation of  one  of  the  great  Alps.  And  whatever  is  lovely  in 
the  lowland  scenery  becomes  lovelier  in  this  change  : the  trees 
which  grew  heavily  and  stiffly  from  the  level  line  of  plain 
assume  strange  curves  of  strength  and  grace  as  they  bend 
themselves  against  the  mountain  side ; they  breathe  more 
freely,  and  toss  their  branches  more  carelessly  as  each  climbs 
higher,  looking  to  the  clear  light  above  the  topmost  leaves  of 
its  brother  tree : the  flowers  which  on  the  arable  plain  fell 
before  the  plough,  now  And  out  for  themselves  unapproacha- 
ble places,  where  year  by  year  they  gather  into  happier  fel- 
lowship, and  fear  no  evil;  and  the  streams  which  in  the 
level  land  crept  in  dark  eddies  by  unwholesome  banks,  now 
move  in  showers  of  silver,  and  are  clothed  with  rainbows, 
and  bring  health  and  life  wherever  the  glance  of  their  waves' 
can  reach. 

5.  And  although  this  beauty  seems  at  first,  in  its  wildness, 
inconsistent  with  the  service  of  man,  it  is  in  fact  more  neces- 
sary to  his  happy  existence  than  all  the  level  and  easily  subdued 
land  which  he  rejoices  to  possess.  It  seems  almost  an  insult 
to  the  reader’s  intelligence  to  ask  him  to  dwell  (as  if  they  could 
be  doubted)  on  the  uses  of  the  hills,  and  yet  so  little  until 
lately  have  those  uses  been  understood,  that  in  the  seventeeTith 
century,  one  of  the  most  enlightened  of  the  religious  men  of 
his  day  (Fleming),  himself  a native  of  a mountain  country, 
casting  about  for  some  reason  to  explain  to  himself  the  exist- 
ence of  mountains,  and  prove  their  harmony  with  the  provi- 
dential government  of  creation,  can  light  upon  this  reason 
only,  They  are  inhabited  by  the  beasts.” 

6.  It  may  not,  therefore,  even  at  this  day,  be  profltless  to 
rov:jw  briefly  tlie  nature  of  the  three  great  offlces  which 


THE  DRY  LAND. 


23 

mountain  ranges  are  appointed  to  fulfil,  in  order  to  preserve 
the  health  and  increase  the  happiness  of  mankind. 

I.  Their  first  use  is  of  course  to  give  motion  to  (fresh)  water. 

Every  fountain  and  river,  from  the  inch-deep  streamlet  that 
crosses  the  village  lane  in  trembling  clearness,  to  the  massy 
and  silent  march  of  the  everlasting  multitude  of  waters  in 
Amazon  or  Ganges,  owe  their  play  and  purity  and  power  to 
the  ordained  elevations  of  the  Earth.  Gentle  or  steep,  ex- 
tended or  abrupt,  some  determined  slope  of  the  earth’s  surface 
is  of  course  necessary,  before  any  wave  can  so  much  as  over- 
take one  sedge  in  its  pilgrimage;  and  how  seldom  do  we 
enough  consider,  as  we  walk  beside  the  margins  of  our  pleas- 
ant brooks,  how  beautiful  and  wonderful  is  that  ordinance,  of 
which  every  blade  of  grass  that  waves  in  their  clear  water  is  a 
perpetual  sign ; that  the  dew  and  rain  fallen  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  shall  find  no  resting-place ; shall  find,  on  the  contrary, 
fixed  channels  traced  for  them,  from  the  ravines  of  the  central 
crests  down  which  they  roar  in  sudden  ranks  of  foam,  to  the 
dark  hollows  beneath  the  banks  of  lowland  pasture,  round 
which  they  must  circle  slowly  among  the  stems  and  beneath 
the  leaves  of  the  lilies ; — paths  prepared  for  them,  by  which, 
at  some  appointed  rate  of  journey,  they  must  evermore  de- 
scend, sometimes  slow  and  sometimes  swift,  but  never  paus- 
ing ; the  daily  portion  of  the  earth  they  have  to  glide  over 
marked  for  them  at  each  successive  sunrise,  the  place  which 
has  known  them  knowing  them  no  more,  and  the  gateways  of 
guarding  mountains  opened  for  them  in  cleft  and  chasm,  none 
letting  them  in  their  pilgrimage ; and,  from  far  off,  the  great 
heart  of  the  sea  calling  them  to  itself!  Deep  calleth  unto 
deep. 

I know  not  which  of  the  two  is  the  more  wonderful, — that 
calm,  gradated,  invisible  slope*  of  the  champaign  land,  which 
gives  motion  to  the  stream  ; or  that  passage  cloven  for  it 

* (Only  true  on  a large  scale.  I have  perhaps  not  allowed  enough  for  the 
mere  secession  of  flowing  water,  supplying  the  evaporation  of  the  sea, 
whether  the  plains  be  level  or  not ; — it  must  find  its  way  to  the  place  where 
there  is  a fall,  as  thrchigh  a mill  pond  to  the  weir.) 


24 


IK  MOKTIBUS  SAKCTIS. 


through  the  ranks  of  hill,  which,  necessary  for  the  health  of 
the  land  immediately  around  them,  would  yet,  unless  so  super- 
naturally  divided,  have  fatally  intercepted  the  flow  of  the  waters 
from  far-off  countries.  When  did  the  great  spirit  of  the  river 
flrst  knock  at  those  adamantine  gates  ? When  did  the  porter 
open  to  it,  and  cast  his  keys  away  for  ever,  lapped  in  whirling 
sand  ? I am  not  satisfied — no  one  should  be  satisfied  with  that 
vague  answer, — the  river  mit  its  way.  Not  so.  The  river 

found  its  way.*  I do  not  see  that  rivers,  in  their  own 

strength,  can  do  much  in  cutting  their  way ; they  are  nearly 
as  apt  to  choke  their  channels  up,  as  to  carve  them  out.  Only 
give  a river  some  little  sudden  power  in  a valley,  and  see  how 
it  will  use  it.  Cut  itself  a bed?  Not  so,  by  any  means,  but 

fill  up  its  bed,  and  look  for  another,  in  a wild,  dissatisfied, 

inconsistent  manner.  Any  way,  rather  than  the  old  one,  will 
better  please  it ; and  even  if  it  is  banked  up  and  forced  to 
keep  to  the  old  one,  it  will  not  deepen,  but  do  all  it  can  to 
raise  it,  and  leap  out  of  it.  And  although,  wherever  water 
has  a steep  fall,  it  will  swiftly  cut  itself  a bed  deep  into  the 
rock  or  ground,  it  will  not,  when  the  rock  is  hard,  cut  a wider 
channel  than  it  actually  needs ; so  that  if  the  existing  river 
beds,  through  ranges  of  mountain,  had  in  reality  been  cut  by 
the  streams,  they  would  be  found,  wherever  the  rocks  are 
hard,  only  in  the  form  of  narrow  and  profound  ravines, — like 
the  well-known  channel  of  the  Niagara,  below  the  fall  5 not  in 
that  of  extended  valleys.  And  the  actual  work  of  true  moun- 
tain rivers,  though  often  much  greater  in  proportion  to  their 
body  of  water  than  that  of  the  Niagara,  is  quite  insignificant 
when  compared  with  the  area  and  depth  of  the  valleys  through 
which  they  flow  ; so  that,  although  in  many  cases  it  appears 
that  those  larger  valleys  have  been  excavated  at  earlier  periods 
by  more  powerful  streams,  or  by  the  existing  stream  in  a more 
powerful  condition,  still  the  great  fact  remains  always  equally 
plain,  and  equally  admirable,  that,  whatever  the  nature  and 

(*  It  is  very  delightful  to  me, — at  least  to  tlie  proud  spirit  in  me, — to  find 
myself  thus  early  perceiving  and  clearly  announcing  a fact  of  which  modern 
geology  is  still  incognizant ; see  the  postscript  to  this  chapter.) 


THE  DRY  LAND. 


25 


duration  of  the  agencies  employed,  the  earth  was  so  shaped  at 
first  as  to  direct  the  currents  of  its  rivers  in  the  maimer  most 
healthy  and  convenient  for  man.  The  valley  of  the  Rhone 
may,  though  it  is  not  likely,  have  been  in  great  part  excavated 
in  early  time  by  torrents  a thousand  times  larger  than  the 
Rhone ; but  it  could  not  have  been  excavated  at  all,  unless  the 
mountains  had  been  thrown  at  first  into  two  chains,  between 
which  the  torrents  were  set  to  work  in  a given  direction. 
And  it  is  easy  to  conceive  how,  under  any  less  beneficent 
dispositions  of  their  masses  of  hill,  the  continents  of  the  earth 
might  either  have  been  covered  with  enormous  lakes,  as  parts  of 
North  America  actually  are  covered  ; or  have  become  wilder- 
nesses of  pestiferous  marsh ; or  lifeless  plains,  upon  which  the 
water  would  have  dried  as  it  fell,  leaving  them  for  great 
part  of  the  year  desert.  Such  districts  do  exist,  and  exist  in 
vastness : the  whole  earth  is  not  prepared  for  the  habitation  of 
man ; only  certain  small  portions  are  prepared  for  him, — the 
houses,  as  it  were,  of  the  human  race,  from  which  they  are  to 
look  abroad  upon  the  rest  of  the  world,  not  to  wonder  or  com- 
plain that  it  is  not  all  house,  but  to  be  grateful  for  the 
kindness  of  the  admirable  building,  in  the  house  itself,  as 
compared  with  the  rest.  It  would  be  as  absurd  to  think  it 
an  evil  that-  all  the  world  is  not  fit  for  us  to  inhabit,  as  to  think 
it  an  evil  that  the  globe  is  no  larger  than  it  is.  As  much  as 
we  shall  ever  need  is  evidently  assigned  to  us  for  our  dwell- 
ing-place ; the  rest,  covered  with  rolling  waves  or  drifting 
sands,  fretted  with  ice,  or  crested  with  fire,  is  set  boforj  ..s 
for  contemplation  in  an  uninhabitable  magnificence ; and  that 
part  which  we  are  enabled  to  inhabit  owes  its  fitness  for 
human  life  chiefly  to  its  mountain  ranges,  which,  throwing 
the  superfluous  rain  off  as  it  falls,  collect  it  in  streams  or  lakes, 
and  guide  it  into  given  places,  and  in  given  directions ; so  that 
men  can  build  their  cities  in  the  midst  of  fields  which  they 
know  will  be  always  fertile,  and  establish  the  lines  of  their 
commerce  upon  streams  which  will  not  fail. 

7.  Nor  is  this  giving  of  motion  to  water  to  be  considered 
as  confined  only  to  the  surface  of  the  earth.  A no  less 


26 


m MONTIBUS  SAi^CTIS. 


important  function  of  the  hills  is  in  directing  the  flow  of  the 
fountains  and  springs,  from  subterranean  reservoirs.  There 
is  no  miraculous  springing  up  of  water  out  of  the  ground  at 
our  feet ; but  every  fountain  and  well  is  supplied  from  a 
reservoir  among  the  hills,  so  placed  as  to  involve  some  slight 
fall  or  pressure,  enough  to  secure  the  constant  flowing  of  the 
stream.  And  the  incalculable  blessing  of  the  power  given  to 
us  in  most  valleys,  of  reaching  by  excavation  some  point 
whence  the  water  will  rise  to  the  surface  of  the  ground  in 
perennial  flow,  is  entirely  owing  to  the  concave  disposition  of 
the  beds  of  clay  or  rock  raised  from  beneath  the  bosom  of  the 
valley  into  ranks  of  enclosing  hills. 

8.  II.  The  second  great  use  of  mountains  is  to  maintain  a 
constant  change  in  the  currents  and  nature  of  the  air.  Such 
change  would,  of  course,  have  been  partly  caused  by  differ- 
ences in  soils  and  vegetation,  even  if  the  earth  had  been  level ; 
but  to  a far  less  extent  than  it  is  now  by  the  chains  of  hills, 
which,  exposing  on  one  side  their  masses  of  rock  to  the  full 
heat  of  the  sun  (increased  by  the  angle  at  which  the  rays 
strike  on  the  slope),  and  on  the  other  casting  a soft  shadow 
for  leagues  over  the  plains  at  their  feet,  divide  the  earth  not 
only  into  districts,  but  into  climates,  and  cause  perpetual 
currents  of  air  to  traverse  their  passes,*  and  ascend  or  descend 
their  ravines,  altering  both  the  temperature  and  nature  of  the 
air  as  it  passes,  in  a thousand  different  ways ; moistening  it 
with  the  spray  of  their  waterfalls,  sucking  it  down  and  beat- 
ing it  hither  and  thither  in  the  pools  of  their  torrents,  closing 
it  within  clefts  and  caves,  where  the  sunbeams  never  reach, 
till  it  is  as  cold  as  November  mists,  then  sending  it  forth 
again  to  breathe  softly  across  the  slopes  of  velvet  fields,  or  to 
be  scorched  among  sunburnt  shales  and  grassless  crags;  then 
drawing  it  back  in  moaning  swirls  through  clefts  of  ice,  and 
up  into  dewy  wreaths  above  the  snow-fields ; then  piercing  it 
with  strange  electric  darts  and  flashes  of  mountain  fire,  and 

* This  second  division  of  my  subject,  compressed  into  one  paragraph,  is 
treated  with  curious  insufficiency.  See  again  postscript  to  this  chapter. 


THE  DRY  LAND. 


27 


tossing  it  high  in  fantastic  storm-cloud,  as  the  dried  grass  is 
tossed  by  the  mower,  only  suffering  it  to  depart  at  last,  when 
chastened  and  pure,  to  refresh  the  faded  air  of  the  far-off 
plains. 

9.  III.  The  third  great  use  of  mountains  is  to  cause  per- 
petual change  in  the  soils  of  the  earth.  Without  such  pro- 
vision, the  ground  nnder  cultivation  would  in  a series  of 
years  become  exhausted,  and  require  to  be  upturned  labori- 
ously by  the  hand  of  man.  But  the  elevations  of  the  earth’s 
surface  provide  for  it  a perpetual  renovation.  The  higher 
mountains  suffer  their  summits  to  be  broken  into  fragments 
and  to  be  cast  down  in  sheets  of  massy  rock,  full,  as  we  shall 
see  presently,  of  every  substance  necessary  for  the  nourishment 
of  plants : these  fallen  fragments  are  again  broken  by  frost, 
and  ground  by  torrents,  into  various  conditions  of  sand  and  clay 
— materials  which  are  distributed  perpetually  by  the  streams 
farther  and  farther  from  the  mountain’s  base.  Every  shower 
which  swells  the  rivulets  enables  their  w^aters  to  carry  certain 
portions  of  earth  into  new  positions,  and  exposes  new  banks 
of  ground  to  be  mined  in  their  turn.  That  turbid  foaming  of 
the  angry  water, — that  tearing  down  of  bank  and  rock  along 
the  flanks  of  its  fury, — are  no  disturbances  of  the  kind  course 
of  nature ; they  are  beneficent  operations  of  laws  necessary  to 
the  existence  of  man  and  to  the  beauty  of  the  earth.  The 
process  is  continued  more  gently,  but  not  less  effectively,  over 
all  the  surface  of  the  lower  undulating  country  ; and  each 
filtering  thread  of  summer  rain  which  trickles  through  the 
short  turf  of  the  uplands  is  bearing  its  own  appointed  burden 
of  earth  to  be  thrown  down  on  some  new  natural  garden  in 
the  dingles  below. 

And  it  is  not,  in  reality,  a degrading,  but  a true,  large,  and 
ennobling  view  of  the  mountain  ranges  of  the  world,  if  we 
compare  them  to  heaps  of  fertile  and  fresh  earth,  laid  up  by  a 
prudent  gardener  beside  his  garden  beds,  whence,  at  intervals, 
he  casts  on  them  some  scattering  of  new  and  virgin  ground. 
That  which  we  so  often  lament  as  convulsion  or  destruction  is 


28 


m AJONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


nothing  else”^  than  the  momentary  shaking  of  the  dust  from 
the  spade.  The  winter  floods,  which  inflict  a temporary  devas- 
tation, bear  with  them  the  elements  of  succeeding  fertility ; 
the  fruitful  fleld  is  covered  with  sand  and  shingle  in  momen- 
tary judgment,  but  in  enduring  mercy;  and  the  great  river, 
which  chokes  its  mouth  with  marsh,  and  tosses  terror  along 
its  shore,  is  but  scattering  the  seeds  of  the  harvests  of  futurity, 
and  preparing  the  seats  of  unborn  generations. 

10.  I have  not  spoken  of  the  local  and  peculiar  utilities  of 
mountains  ; I do  not  count  the  benefit  of  the  supply  of  sum- 
mer streams^  from  the  moors  of  the  higher  ranges, — of  the 
various  medicinal  plants  which  are  nested  among  their  rocks, 
— of  the  delicate  pasturage  which  they  furnish  for  cattle, f — 
of  the  forests  in  which  they  bear  timber  for  shipping, — the 
stones  they  supply  for  building,  or  the  ores  of  metal  which 
they  collect  into  spots  open  to  discovery,  and  easy  for  work- 
ing. All  these  benefits  are  of  a secondary  or  a limited  nature. 
But  the  three  great  functions  which  I have  just  described, — 
those  of  giving  motion  and  change  to  water,  air,  and  earth, — 
are  indispensable  to  human  existence  ; they  are  operations  to 
be  regarded  with  as  full  a depth  of  gratitude  as  the  laws  which 
bid  the  tree  bear  fruit,  or  the  seed  multiply  itself  in  the  earth. 
And  thus  those  desolate  and  threatening  ranges  of  dark  moun- 
tain, which,  in  nearly  all  ages  of  the  world,  men  have  looked 
upon  with  aversion  or  with  terror,  and  shrunk  back  from  as  if 
tliey  were  haunted  by  perpetual  images  of  death,  are,  in  real- 
ity, sources  of  life  and  happiness  far  fuller  and  more  beneficent 
than  all  the  bright  fruitfulnesses  of  the  plain.  The  valleys 
only  feed ; the  mountains  feed,  and  guard,  and  strengthen  us. 
We  take  our  ideas  of  fearfulness  and  sublimity  alternately 
from  the  mountains  and  the  sea ; but  we  associate  them 
unjustly.  The  sea  wave,  with  all  its  beneficence,  is  yet 


* (I  should  call  it  a good  deal  else,  now  ! but  must  leave  the  text  un- 
touched ; being,  in  its  statements  of  pure  fact, — putting  its  theology  aside 
for  the  moment, — quite  one  of  the  best  pieces  I have  ever  done.) 

f The  highest  pasturages  (at  least  so  say  the  Savoyards)  being  always  the 
best  and  richest. 


THE  DRY  LAKD. 


29 


devouring  and  terrible ; but  the  silent  wave  of  the  blue  moun- 
tain is  lifted  towards  heaven  in  a stillness  of  perpetual  mercy ; 
and  the  one  surge,  unfathomable  in  its  darkness,  the  other, 
unshaken  in  its  faithfulness,  for  ever  bear  the  seal  of  their 
appointed  symbolism, 


^^THY  JUSTICE  IS  LIKE  THE  GREAT  MOUNTAINS: 
THY  JUDGMENTS  ARE  A GREAT  DEEP.’’ 


POSTSCRIPT  TO  CHAPTER  II 


The  subject  of  erosion  by  water,  referred  to  in  the  note  at  p.  24,  is  treated 
of  at  length  in  the  12th  chapter  of  * Deucalion,’  of  which  the  conclusions 
may  be  summed  in  the  warning  to  young  geologists  not  to  suppose  that 
because  Shanklin  Chine  was  ‘ chined  ’ by  its  central  gutter,  therefore  Salis- 
bury Craigs  were  cut  out  by  the  Water  of  Leith, — Ingleborough  by  the  Kib- 
ble, or  Monte  Rosa  by  the  Rhone. 

The  subject  has  since  been  farther  illustrated  by  the  admirable  drawings 
and  sections  given  by  Mr.  Coliingwood  in  his  ' Limestone  Alps  of  Savoy,’ 
1884. 

The  paragraph  at  p.  26  is  chiefly,  and  enormously,  defective  in  speaking 
only  of  the  changes  effected  by  mountains  in  the  nature  of  air,  and  not 
following  out  their  good  offices  in  lifting  the  mountaineer  nations  to  live  in 
the  air  they  purify,  or  rise  into,  already  pure. 


OF  THE  MATERIALS  OF  MOUHTAIHS. 


31 


CHAPTEE  III. 

OF  THE  MATERIALS  OF  MOUNTAINS. 
‘Modern  Fainter s,'  Part  V.,  the  beginning  of  chap,  mii. 


In  the  early  days  of  geological  science,  the  substances  which 
composed  the  crust  of  the  earth,  as  far  as  it  could  be  exam- 
ined, were  supposed  to  be  referable  to  three  distinct  classes : 
the  first  consisting  of  rocks  which  not  only  supported  all  the 
rest,  but  from  which  all  the  rest  were  derived,  therefore  called 
u Ppimary  the  second  class  consisting  of  rock  formed  of  the 
broken  fragments  or  altered  substance  of  the  primary  ones, 
therefore  called  Secondary  f and,  thirdly,  rocks  or  earthy 
deposits  formed  by  the  ruins  and  detritus  of  both  primary  and 
secondary  rocks,  called  therefore  “ Tertiary.”  This  classifica- 
tion was  always,  in  some  degree,  uncertain  ; and  has  been 
lately  superseded  by  more  complicated  systems,  founded  on 
the  character  of  the  fossils  contained  in  the  various  deposits, 
and  on  the  circumstances  of  position,  by  which  their  relative 
ages  are  more  accurately  ascertainable.  But  the  original  rude 
classification,  though  of  little,  if  any,  use  for  scientific  pur- 
poses, was  based  on  certain  broad  and  conspicuous  phenomena, 
which  it  brought  clearly  before  the  popular  mind.  In  this 
way  it  may  still  be  serviceable,  and  ought,  I think,  to  be  per- 
mitted to  retain  its  place,  as  an  introduction  to  systems  more 
defined  and  authoritative.* 

2.  For  the  fact  is,  that  in  approaching  any  large  mountain 


* I am  still  entirely  of  this  opinion.  See  postscript  to  chapter.  These 
opening  paragraphs  are  to  my  mind  extremely  well  put,  and  should  he  read 
to  young  people  hy  their  tutors  as  an  introduction  to  geological  study.  I 
have  here  and  there  retouched  a loose  sentence,  and  leave  them  as  good  as  I 
could  do  now. 


32 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


range,  the  ground  over  which  the  spectator  passes,  if  he  ex-  / 
amine  it  with  any  intelligence,  will  almost  always  arrange 
itself  in  his  mind  under  three  great  heads.  There  will  be, 
first,  the  ground  of  the  plains  or  valleys  he  is  about  to  quit, 
composed  of  sand,  clay,  gravel,  rolled  stones,  and  variously 
mingled  soils  ; which,  when  there  is  opportunity,  at  the  banks 
of  a stream,  or  the  sides  of  a railway  cutting,  to  examine  to 
any  depth,  he  will  find  arranged  in  beds  exactly  resembling 
those  of  modern  sandbanks  or  sea-beaches,  and  appearing  to 
have  been  formed  under  natural  laws  such  as  are  in  operation 
daily  around  us.  At  the  outskirts  of  the  hill  district,  he  may, 
perhaps,  find  considerable  eminences,  formed  of  these  beds  of 
loose  gravel  and  sand ; but,  as  he  enters  into  it  farther,  he  will 
soon  discover  the  hills  to  be  composed  of  some  harder  sub- 
stance, properly  deserving  the  name  of  rock,  sustaining  itself 
in  picturesque  forms,  and  appearing,  at  first,  to  owe  both  its 

hardness  and  its  outlines  to  the  action  of  laws  such  as  do  not 

0 

hold  at  the  present  day.  He  can  easily  explain  the  nature, 
and  account  for  the  distribution  of  the  banks  which  overhang 
the  lowland  road,  or  of  the  dark  earthy  deposits  which  enrich 
the  lowland  pasture ; but  he  cannot  so  distinctly  imagine  how 
the  limestone  hills  of  Derbyshire  and  Yorkshire  were  hard- 
ened into  their  stubborn  whiteness,  or  raised  into  their  cavern- 
ous cliffs.  Still,  if  he  carefully  examine  the  substance  of 
these  more  noble  rocks,  he  will,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  dis- 
cover them  to  be  composed  of  fine  calcareous  dust,  or  closely 
united  particles  of  sand ; and  will  be  ready  to  accept  as  possi- 
ble, or  even  probable,  the  suggestion  of  their  having  been 
formed,  by  slow  deposit,  at  the  bottom  of  deep  lakes  and 
ancient  seas,  and  then  gradually  consolidated  under  such  laws 
of  JSTature  as  are  still  in  operation. 

3.  But,  as  he  advances  yet  farther  into  the  hill  district,  he 
finds  the  rocks  around  him  assuming  a gloomier  and  more 
majestic  condition.  Their  tint  darkens  ; their  outlines  become 
wild  and  irregular;  and  whereas  before  they  had  only  ap- 
peared at  the  roadside  in  narrow  ledges  among  the  turf,  or 
glanced  out  from  among  the  thickets  above  the  brooks  in 


OF  THE  MATERIAl.S  OF  MOUNTAINS. 


33 


white  walls  and  fantastic  towers,  they  now  rear  themselves  up 
in  solemn  and  shattered  masses  far  and  near  ; softened,  indeed, 
with  strange  harmony  of  clouded  colours,  but  possessing  the 
whole  scene  with  their  iron  spirit ; and  rising,  in  all  proba- 
bility, into  eminences  as  much  prouder  in  actual  elevation 
than  those  of  the  intermediate  rocks,  as  more  powerful  in 
their  influence  over  every  minor  feature  of  the  landscape. 

4.  And  when  the  traveller  proceeds  to  observe  closely  the 
materials  of  which  these  nobler  ranges  are  composed,  he  flnds 
also  a complete  change  in  their  internal  structure.  They  are 
no  longer  formed  of  delicate  sand  or  dust — each  particle  of 
that  dust  the  same  as  every  other,  and  the  whole  mass  depend- 
ing for  its  hardness  merely  on  their  closely  cemented  unity ; 
but  they  are  now  formed  of  several  distinct  substances,  visibly 
unlike  each  other ; and  not  fressed^  but  crystallized  into  one 
mass, — crystallized  into  a unity  far  more  perfect  than  that  of 
the  dusty  limestone,  but  yet  without  the  least  mingling  of 
their  several  natures  with  each  other.  Such  a rock,  freshly 
broken,  has  a spotty,  granulated,  and,  in  almost  all  instances, 
sparkling,  appearance ; it  requires  a much  harder  blow  to 
break  it  than  the  limestone  or  sandstone ; but  when  once 
thoroughly  shattered,  it  is  easy  to  separate  from  each  other 
the  various  substances  of  which  it  is  composed,  and  to  exam- 
ine them  in  their  individual  grains  or  crystals ; of  which  each 
variety  will  be  found  to  have  a different  degree  of  hardness,  a 
different  shade  of  colour,  a different  character  of  form,  and  a 
different  chemical  composition. 

But  this  examination  will  not  enable  the  observer  to  com- 
prehend the  method  either  of  their  formation  or  aggregation, 
at  least  by  any  process  such  as  he  now  sees  taking  place  around 
him ; he  will  at  once  be  driven  to  admit  that  some  strange 


* ‘ Clouded ' referring  to  the  peculiar  softness  and  richness  of  the  dark 
lichens  on  many  primitive  rocks,  as  opposed  to  the  whiteness  or  gray  yel- 
low of  many  among  the  secondaries.  ‘ Iron  spirit,’  just  after,  meaning  a 
strength  having  the  toughness  of  iron  in  it,  unassailable  ; but  I find  with 
pleasant  surprise  in  extremely  ' old  English  ’ geology,  a large  family  of  these 
rocks  called  ‘ siderous,’  from  the  quantity  of  latent  iron  they  contain. 

2 


34 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


and  powerful  operation  has  taken  place  upon  these  rocks,  dif-  / 
ferent  from  any  of  which  he  is  at  present  cognizant.* 

5.  Now,  although  these  three  great  groups  of  rocks  do 
indeed  often  pass  into  each  other  by  imperceptible  gradations, 
and  although  their  peculiar  aspect  is  never  a severe  indication 
of  their  relative  ages,  yet  their  characters  are  for  the  most 
part  so  defined  as  to  make  a strong  impression  on  the  mind 
of  an  ordinary  observer ; and  their  age  is  also  for  the  most 
part  approximately  indicated  by  their  degrees  of  hardness,  and 
crystalline  aspect.  It  does,  indeed,  sometimesf  happen  that  a 
soft  and  slimy  clay  will  pass  into  a rock  like  Aberdeen  granite 
by  transitions  so  subtle  that  no  point  of  separation  can  be 
determined ; and  it  very  often  happens  that  rocks  like  Aber- 
deen granite  are  of  more  recent  formation  than  certain  beds 
of  sandstone  and  limestone.  But  in  spite  of  all  these  uncer- 
tainties and  exceptions,  I believe  that  unless  actual  pains  be 
taken  to  efface  from  the  mind  its  natural  impressions,  the 
idea  of  three  great  classes  of  rocks  and  earth  will  maintain  its 
ground  in  the  thoughts  of  the  generally  intelligent  observer ; 
that,  whether  he  desire  it  or  not,  he  will  find  himself  throwing 
the  soft  and  loose  clays  and  sands  together  under  one  head ; 
placing  the  hard  rocks,  of  a dull,  compact,  homogeneous 
substance,  under  another  head  ; and  the  hardest  rocks,  of  a 
crystalline,  glittering,  and  various  substance,  under  a third 
head  ; and  having  done  this,  he  will  also  find  that,  with  certain 
easily  admissible  exceptions,  these  three  classes  of  rocks  are, 
in  every  district  which  he  examines,  of  three  different  ages ; 
that  the  softest  are  the  youngest,  the  hard  and  homogeneous 
ones  are  older,  and  the  crystalline  are  the  oldest ; and  he  will, 
jierhaps,  in  the  end,  find  it  a somewhat  inconvenient  piece  of 

* The  original  text  proceeded  thus — ‘ and  farther  inquiry  will  probably 
induce  him  to  admit,  as  more  than  probable,  the  supposition  that  their  struc- 
ture is  in  great  part  owing  to  the  action  of  enormous  heat  prolonged  for  in- 
definite periods,' — which  sentence  I remove  into  this  note  to  prevent  the 
lucidity  and  straightforward  descriptional  truth  of  these  paragraphs  to  be 
soiled  with  conjecture. 

f Very  rarely  ! I forget  what  instance  I was  thinking  of — any  how  the 
sentence  is  too  strongly  put. 


OF  THE  MATEKIALS  OF  MOUNTAINS.  35 

respect  to  the  complexity  a^d  accuracy  of  modern  geological 
science,  if  he  refuse  to  the  three  classes,  thus  defined  in  liis 
imagination,  their  ancient  titles  of  Tertiary,  Secondary,  and 
Primary. 

6.  But  however  this  may  be,  there  is  one  lesson  evidently 
intended  to  be  taught  by  the  different  characters  of  these 
rocks,  which  we  must  not  allow  to  escape  us.  We  have  to 
observe,  first,  the  state  of  perfect  powerlessjiess,  ^i^fToss  of 
all  beauty,  exhibited  in  those  beds  of  earth  in  which  the 
separated  pieces  or  particles  are  entirely  independent  of  each 
other,  more  especially  in  the  gravel  whose  pebbles  have  all  been 
rolled  into  one  shape : secondly,  the  greater  degree  of  perma- 
nence, power,  and  beauty  possessed  by  the  rocks  whose  com- 
ponent atoms  have  some  affection  and  attraction  for  each  other, 
though  all  of  one  kind  ; and,  lastlv,  the  utmost  form  and 
highest  beauty  of  the  rocks  in  which  the  several  atoms  have 
all  different  shapes^  characters^  and  offices  / but  are  inseparably 
united  by  some  fiery,  or  baptismal,*  process  which  has  purified 
them  all. 

It  can  hardly  be  necessary  to  point  out  how  those  natural 
ordinances  seem  intended!  to  teach  us  the  great  truths  which 
are  the  basis  of  all  political  science ; how  the  polishing  friction 
which  separates,  the  affection  that  binds,  and  the  affliction  that 
fuses  and  confirms,  are  accurately  symbolized  by  the  processes 
to  wdiich  the  several  ranks  of  hills  appear  to  owe  their  present 
aspect ; and  how,  even  if  the  knowledge  of  those  processes  be 
denied  to  us,  that  present  aspect  may  in  itself  seem  no  imper- 
fect image  of  the  various  states  of  mankind:  first,  that  which 
is  powerless  through  total  disorganization  ; secondly,  that 
which,  though  united,  and  in  some  degree  powerful,  is  yet 
incapable  of  great  effort,  or  result,  owing  to  the  too  great 
rdmilarity  and  confusion  of  offices,  both  in  ranks  and  individ- 


* The  words  ' or  baptismal  ’ now  inserted. 

f Most  people  being  unable  to  imagine  intention  under  the  guise  of  fixed 
law,  I should  have  said  now,  rather  than  ‘ seem  intended  to  teach  us,’  ‘ do,  if 
we  will  consider  them,  teach  us.’  See  however,  below,  the  old  note  to  §0. 
This  Gth  paragraph  is  the  germ,  or  rather  bulb,  of  ‘ Ethics  of  tbc  Dust.’ 


36 


IK  MOKTIBUS  SAKCTIS. 


nals ; and  finally,  tlie  perfect  state  of  brotherhood  and  strength  ^ 
in  which  each  character  is  clearly  distinguished,  separately 
perfected,  and  employed  in  its  proper  place  and  office. 

7.  I shall  not,  however,  so  oppose  myself  to  the  views  of 
our  leading  geologists  as  to  retain  here  the  nam.es  of  Primary, 
Secondary,  and  Tertiary  rocks.  But  as  I wish  the  reader  to 
keep  the  ideas  of  the  three  classes  clearly  in  his  mind,  I will 
ask  his  leave  to  give  them  names  which  involve  no  theory, 
and  can  be  liable,  therefore,  to  no  grave  objections.  We  will 
call  the  hard,  and  (generally)  central,  masses.  Crystalline 
Rocks,  because  they  almost  always  present  an  appearance  of 
crystallization.*  The  less  hard  substances,  which  appear  com- 
pact and  homogeneous,  we  will  call  Coherent  Rocks,  and  for 
the  scattered  debris  we  will  use  the  general  term  Diluvium. 

8.  All  these  orders  of  substance  agree  in  one  character,  that 
of  being  more  or  less  frangible  or  soluble.  One  material, 
indeed,  which  enters  largely  into  the  composition  of  most  of 
them,  flinty  is  harder  than  iron ; but  even  this,  their  chief 
source  of  strength,  is  easily  broken  by  a sudden  blow  ; and  it 
is  so  combined  in  the  large  rocks  with  softer  substances,  that 
time  and  the  violence  or  chemical  agency  of  the  weather 
invariably  produce  certain  destructive  effects  on  their  masses. 
Some  of  them  become  soft,  and  moulder  away;  others  break, 
little  by  little,  into  angular  fragments  or  slaty  sheets ; but  all 
yield  in  some  way  or  other ; and  the  problem  to  be  solved  in 
every  mountain  range  aj^pears  to  be,  that  under  these  condi- 
tions of  decay,  the  cliffs  and  peaks  may  be  raised  as  high  and 
thrown  into  as  noble  forms,  as  is  possible,  consistently  with 
an  effective,  though  not  perfect  permanence,  and  a general, 
though  not  absolute  security. 

9.  Perfect  permanence  and  absolute  security  were  evi- 
dently in  nowise  intended.f  It  would  have  been  as  easy  for 

* Not  strongly  enougli  put,  this  time.  They  always  are  crystalline, 
whether  they  present  the  appearance  of  it  or  not. 

f I am  well  aware  that  to  the  minds  of  many  persons  nothing  hears  a 
greater  appearance  of  presumption  than  any  attempt  at  reasoning  respecting 


OF  THE  MATERIALS  OF  MOUNTAINS. 


37 


the  Creator  to  have  made  mountaiiis  of  steel  as  of  granite,  of 
adamant  as  of  lime  ; but  this  was  clearly  no  part  of  the 
Divine  counsels : mountains  were  to  be  destructible  and 
frail, — to  melt  under  the  soft  lambency  of  the  streamlet, — to 
shiver  before  the  subtle  wedge  of  the  frost, — to  wither  with 
untraceable  decay  in  their  own  substance  ; — and  yet,  under  all 
these  conditions  of  destruction,  to  be  maintained  in  magnifi- 
cent eminence  before  the  eyes  of  men. 

Nor  is  it  in  anywise  difficult  for  us  to  perceive  the  benefi- 
cent reasons  for  this  appointed  frailness  of  the  m,ountains. 
They  appear  to  be  threefold  : the  first,  and  the  most  im- 
portant, that  successive  soils  might  be  supplied  to  the  plains, 
in  the  manner  explained  in  the  last  chapter,  and  that  men 
might  be  furnished  with  a material  for  tlieir  works  of  archi- 
tecture and  sculpture,  at  once  soft  enough  to  be  subdued,  and 
hard  enough  to  be  preserved  ; the  second,  that  some  sense  of 
danger  might  always  be  connected  with  the  most  precipitous 
forms,  and  thus  increase  their  sublimity  ; and  tlie  third,  that 
a subject  of  perpetual  interest  might  be  opened  to  the  human 
mind  in  observing  the  changes  of  form  brought  about  by  time 
on  these  monuments  of  Creation. 

10.  In  order,  therefore,  to  understand  the  method  in  which 
these  various  substances  break,  so  as  to  produce  the  forms 
which  are  of  chief  importance  in  landscape,  as  w^ell  as  the  ex- 
quisite adaptation  of  all  their  qualities  to  the  service  of  men, 
it  will  be  well  that  I should  take  some  note  of  them  in  their 
order ; not  with  any  far-followed  mineralogical  detail,  but 


the  purposes  of  the  Divine  Being  : and  that  in  many  cases  it  would  be 
thought  more  consistent  with  the  modesty  of  humanity  to  limit  its  en- 
deavour to  the  ascertaining  of  physical  causes  than  to  form  conjectures 
respecting  Divine  intentions.  But  I believe  this  feeling  to  be  false  and 
dangerous.  Wisdom  can  only  be  demonstrated  in  its  ends,  and  goodness 
only  perceived  in  its  motives.  He  who  in  a morbid  modesty  supposes  that 
he  is  incapable  of  apprehending  any  of  the  purposes  of  God,  renders  him- 
self also  incapable  of  witnessing  His  wisdom  ; and  he  who  supposes  that 
favours  may  be  bestowed  without  intention,  will  soon  learn  to  receive  them 
without  gratitude. 


38 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


with  care  enough  to  enable  me  hereafter  to  explain,  without  ^ 
obscurity,  any  phenomena  dependent  upon  such  peculiarities 
of  substance. 

(I  have  cut  tlie  eighth  chapter  of  the  old  book  in  half  here, 
for  better  arrangement  of  subject.  The  reader  will  perhaps 
forego,  once  in  a way,  without  painful  sense  of  loss,  my 
customary  burst  of  terminal  eloquence.) 


POSTSCEIPT  TO  CHAPTEE  IIL 

For  many  reasons,  which  will  appear  one  by  one  in  the  course  of  this 
work,  I think  it  well  to  give,  for  postscript  to  this  chapter,  a translation  of 
Saussure’s  introductory  account  of  granite,  published  in  1803,  at  Neuchatel, 
Chez  Louis  Fauche-Borel,  Imprimeur  du  Boi,  (King  of  Prussia),  ‘ Voyages 
dans  les  Alpes,’  vol.  i.,  chap.  v.  Les  Koches  Composees.  Granit. 

' Granites  belong  to  that  class  of  stones  which  naturalists  name  composed 
stones,  or  rocks,  or  living  rock,  roc  vif.*  the  saxa  mixta  of  Wallerius. 
This  class  includes  stones  which  are  composed  of  two,  three,  or  four  differ- 
ent species  of  stones,  intermixed  under  the  form  of  angular  grains,  or  folia 
(feuillets)  united  by  the  intimacy  of  their  contact , without  the  help  of  any 
stronger  gluten. 

' Those  which  divide  themselves  by  folia  are  called  schistous  rocks,  or 
foliated  rocks  (Roches  schisteuses  ou  Roches  feuilletees).  Saxa  fissilia, 
Wall.  Those  which  appear  composed  of  grains,  and  which  present  neither 
folia  nor  sensible  veins,  are  named  Rocks  in  mass.  Saxa  solida.  Wall. 
Such  are  the  granites. 

‘ It  is  these  two  species  of  rocks  which  form  the  matter  of  the  most 
elevated  mountains,  such  as  the  central  chains  of  the  Alps,  the  Cordillera, 
the  Ural,  Caucasus,  and  Altaic  mountains.  One  never  finds  them  seated 
upon  (assises  sur)  mountains  of  slate  (ardoise)  or  of  calcareous  stone  ; they 
serve,  on  the  contrary,  for  base  to  these,  and  have  consequently  existed 
before  them.  They  bear  then,  by  just  claim,  the  name  of  primitive  moun- 
tains, while  those  of  slate  and  calcareous  stone  are  qualified  as  secondary.’ 

The  young  reader  will  do  well  to  fix  these  simple  statements  in  his  head, 
and  by  no  means  let  them  be  shaken  in  it.  Modern  geologists  will  tell  him 
that  Mont  Blanc  is  young  ; but  the  date  of  a mountain’s  elevation  is  not  that 
of  its  substance.  Granite  no  more  becomes  a secondary  rock  in  lifting  a 
bed  of  chalk  than  an  old  man  becomes  a boy  in  throwing  off  his  bedclothes. 
Also  modern  geologists  will  tell  you  that  granite  and  basalt  are  pretty  much 
the  same  thing,  that  each  may  become  the  other,  and  any  come  to  the  top. 
Recollect  simply,  to  begin  with,  that  granite  forms  delightful  and  healthy 
countries,  basalt  gloomy  and  oppressive  ones,  and  that,  if  you  have  the  mis- 
fortune to  live  under  Etna  or  Hecla,  you  and  your  house  may  both  be 
buried  in  basalt  to-morrow  morning  ; but  that  nobody  was  ever  buried  in 


* The  modern  reader  passes  as  merely  poetical  the  words  ‘ living  rock  ’ of  fornler 
good  writers.  But  living  rock  is  as  distinct  from  dead,  as  heart  of  oak  from  dry  rot.  In 
accuracy,  ‘living  ’ is  the  word  used  by  the  natural  human  sense  to  express  the  difference 
between  a crystalline  rock,  and  one  of  mere  coagmlated  sand  or  slime. 


40 


IlSr  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


granite,  unless  somebody  paid  for  bis  tomb.  Kecollect  farther  that  granite 
is  for  the  most  part  visibly  composed  of  three  substances,  always  easily 
recognisable— quartz,  felspar,  and  mica  ; but  basalt  may  be  made  of  any- 
thing on  the  face  or  in  the  stomach  of  the  Earth.  And  recollect  finally, 
that  there  was  assuredly  a time  when  the  Earth  had  no  animals  upon  it — 
another  time  when  it  had  only  nasty  and  beastly  animals  upon  it,  and  that 
at  this  time  it  has  a great  many  beautiful  and  angelic,  animals  upon  it,  tor- 
mented out  of  their  lives  by  one  extremely  foolish  two-legged  one.  To 
these  three  periods,  the  first  of  chaotic  solitude,  the  second  of  rampant 
monstrosity,  and  the  third  of  ruthless  beauty,  the  names  of  Primary, 
Secondary,  and  Tertiary  may  justly  hold  for  ever — be  the  Fourth  Age  what 
it  may. 


INAUGURAL  ADDRESS 


DELIVERED  AT  THE 

Cambridge  School  of  Art, 

OCTOBER  29th,  1858. 


BY 

JOHN  RUSK  IN,  LL  D., 

HONORARY  STUDENT  OF  CHRISTCHURCH,  AND  SLADE  PROFESSOR  OF  FINE  ART. 


NEW  EDITION, 


NEW  YORK  AND  SAINT  PAUL: 

D.  D.  MERRILL  COMPANY. 


INAUGURAL  ADDRESS 


DELIVERED  AT  THE 

CAMBRIDGE  SCHOOL  OF  ART, 

OCTOBER  29th,  1858. 


I SUPPOSE  the  persons  interested  in  establishing  a School  of 
Art  for  workmen  may  in  the  main  be  divided  into  two  classes, 
namely,  first,  those  who  chiefly  desire  to  make  the  men  them- 
selves happier,  wiser,  and  better;  and  secondly,  those  who 
desire  to  enable  them  to  produce  better  and  more  valuable 
worR.,  These  two  objects  may,  of  course,  be  kept  botl)  in 
view  at  tne  same  time  ; nevertheless,  there  is  a wide  difier- 
ence  in  the  spirit  with  which  we  shall  approach  our  task,  ac- 
cording to  the  motives  of  these  two  which  weighs  most  with 
us — a difference  great  enough  to  divide,  as  I have  said,  the 
promoters  of  any  such  scheme  into  two  distinct  classes ; one 
philanthropic  in  the  gist  of  its  aim,  and  the  other  commercial 
in  the  gist  of  its  aim ; one  desiring  the  workman  to  be  better 
informed  chiefly  for  his  own  sake,  and  the  other  chiefly  that 
he  may  be  enabled  to  produce  for  us  commodities  precious  in 
themselves,  and  which  shall  successfully  compete  with  those 
of  other  countries. 

And  this  separation  in  motives  must  lead  also  to  a distinc- 
tion in  the  machinery  of  the  work.  The  philanthropists  ad- 
dress themselves,  not  to  the  artisan  merely,  but  to  the  labourer 
in  general,  desiring  in  any  possible  way  to  refine  the  liabits 
or  increase  the  happiness  of  our  w^hole  working  population, 
by  giving  them  new  recreations  or  new  thoughts  : and  the 


2 


INAUGURAL  ADDRESS  AT  THE 


principles  of  Art-education  adopted  in  a school  which  has  this 
wide  but  somewhat  indeterminate  aim,  are,  or  should  be,  very 
different  from  those  adopted  in  a school  meant  for  the  special 
instruction  of  the  artisan  in  his  own  business.  I do  not  think 
this  distinction  is  yet  firmly  enough  fixed  in  our  minds,  or 
calculated  upon  in  our  jdans  of  operation.  We  have  hitherto 
acted,  it  seems  to  me,  under  a vague  impression  that  the  arts 
of  drawing  and  painting  might  be,  up  to  a certain  point, 
taught  in  a general  way  to  every  one,  and  would  do  every  one 
equal  good ; and  that  each  class  of  operatives  might  after- 
wards bring  this  general  knowledge  into  use  in  their  own 
trade,  according  to  its  requirements.  Now,  that  is  not  so. 
A wood-carver  needs  for  his  business  to  learn  drawing  in  quite 
a different  way  from  a china-painter,  and  a jeweller  from  a 
worker  in  iron.  They  must  be  led  to  study  quite  different 
characters  in  the  natural  forms  they  introduce  in  their  various 
manufacture.  It  is  of  no  use  to  teach  an  iron- worker  to  ob- 
serve the  down  on  a peach,  and  of  none  to  teach  laws  of 
atmos^^heric  effect  to  a carver  in  wood.  So  far  as  their  busi- 
ness is  concerned,  their  brains  would  be  vainly  occupied  by 
such  tilings,  and  they  would  be  prevented  from  pursuing,  with 
enough  distinctness  or  intensity,  the  qualities  of  Art  which 
can  alone  be  expressed  in  the  materials  with  which  they  each 
have  to  do. 

Now,  I believe  it  to  be  wholly  impossible  to  teach  special 
application  of  Art  principles  to  various  trades  in  a single 
school.  That  special  application  can  be  only  learned  rightly 
by  the  experience  of  years  in  the  particular  work  required. 
The  power  of  each  material,  and  the  difficulties  connected 
with  its  treatment,  are  not  so  much  to  be  taught  as  to  be  felt ; 
it  is  only  by  repeated  touch  and  continued  trial  beside  the 
forge  or  the  furnace,  that  the  goldsmith  can  find  out  how  to 
govern  his  gold,  or  the  glass-worker  his  crystal ; and  it  is 
only  by  watching  and  assisting  the  actual  practice  of  a master 
in  the  business,  that  the  apprentice  can  learn  the  efficient 
secrets  of  manipulation,  or  perceive  the  true  limits  of  the  in- 
volved conditions  of  design.  It  seems  to  me,  therefore,  that 


CAMBRIDGE  SCHOOL  OF  ART. 


3 


all  idea  of  reference  to  definite  businesses  should  be  abandoned 
in  such  schools  as  that  just  established  : we  can  have  neither 
the  materials,  the  conveniences,  nor  the  empirical  skill  in  the 
master,  necessary  to  make  such  teaching  useful.  All  specific 
Art-teaching  must  be  given  in  schools  established  by  each 
trade  for  itself : and  when  our  operatives  are  a little  more  en- 
lightened on  these  matters,  there  will  be  found,  as  I have 
already  stated  in  my  lectures  on  the  political  economy  of  Art, 
absolute  necessity  for  the  establishment  of  guilds  of  trades  in 
an  active  and  practical  form,  for  the  purposes  of  ascertaining 
the  principles  of  Art  proper  to  their  business,  and  instruct- 
ing their  apprentices  in  them,  as  well  as  making  experiments 
on  materials,  and  on  newly-invented  methods  of  procedure ; 
besides  many  other  functions  which  I cannot  now  enter  into 
account  of.  All  this  for  the  present,  and  in  a school  such  as 
this,  I repeat,  we  cannot  hope  for : we  shall  obtain  no  satis- 
factory result,  unless  we  give  up  such  hope,  and  set  ourselves 
to  teaching  the  operative,  however  employed — be  he  farmer’s 
labourer,  or  manufacturer’s ; be  he  mechanic,  artificer,  shop- 
man, sailor,  or  ploughman — teaching,  I say,  as  far  as  we  can, 
one  and  the  same  thing  to  all ; namely.  Sight. 

Not  a slight  thing  to  teach,  this : perhaps,  on  the  whole, 
the  most  important  thing  to  be  taught  in  the  whole  range  of 
teaching.  To  be  taught  to  read — what  is  the  use  of  that,  if 
you  know  not  whether  what  you  read  is  false  or  true  ? To  be 
taught  to  write  or  to  speak — but  what  is  the  use  of  speaking,  if 
you  have  nothing  to  say  ? To  be  taught  to  think — nay,  what 
is  the  use  of  being  able  to  think,  if  you  have  nothing  to 
think  of  ? But  to  bo  taught  to  see  is  to  gain  word  and  thought 
at  once,  and  both  true.  There  is  a vague  acknowledgment 
of  this  in  the  way  people  are  continually  expressing  their 
longings  for  light,  until  all  the  common  language  of  our 
prayers  and  hymns  has  sunk  into  little  more  than  one  mo- 
notonous metaphor,  dimly  twisted  into  alternate  languages, — - 
asking  first  in  Latin  to  be  illuminated ; and  then  in  English 
to  be  enlightened  ; and  then  in  Latin  again  to  be  delivered 
out  of  obscurity  ; and  then  in  English  to  be  delivered  out  oi 


4 


INAUGURAL  ADDRESS  AT  THE 


darkuess;  and  then  for  beams,  and  rays,  and  suns,  and  stars, 
and  lamps,  until  sometimes  one  wishes  that,  at  least  for  relig- 
ious purposes,  there  were  no  such  words  as  light  or  darkness 
in  existence.  Still,  the  main  instinct  which  makes  people 
endure  this  perpetuity  of  repetition  is  a true  one  ; only  the 
main  thing  they  want  and  ought  to  ask  for  is,  not  light,  but 
Sight.  It  doesn’t  matter  how  much  light  you  have  if  you 
don’t  know  how  to  use  it.  It  may  very  possibly  put  out  your 
eyes,  instead  of  helping  them.  Besides,  we  want,  in  this 
world  of  ours,  very  often  to  be  able  to  see  in  the  dark — that’s 
the  great  gift  of  all ; — but  at  any  rate  to  see ; no  matter  by 
what  light,  so  only  we  can  see  things  as  they  are.  On  my 
word,  we  should  soon  make  it  a different  world,  if  we  could 
get  but  a little — ever  so  little — of  the  dervish’s  ointment  in 
the  Arabian  Nights,  not  to  show  us  the  treasures  of  the  earth, 
but  the  facts  of  it. 

However,  whether  these  things  be  generally  true  or  not,  at 
ail  events  it  is  certain  that  our  immediate  business,  in  such  a 
school  as  this,  will  prosper  more  by  attending  to  eyes  than  to 
hands  ; we  shall  always  do  most  good  by  simply  endeavouring 
to  enable  the  student  to  see  natural  objects  clearly  and  truly. 
We  ought  not  even  to  try  too  strenuously  to  give  him  the 
power  of  representing  them.  That  power  may  be  acquired, 
more  or  less,  by  exercises  which  are  no  wise  conducive  to 
accuracy  of  sight : and,  vice  versd^  accuracy  of  sight  may  be 
gained  by  exercises  which  in  no  wise  conduce  to  ease  of  repre- 
sentation. For  instance,  it  very  much  assists  the  power  of 
drawing  to  spend  many  hours  in  the  practice  of  washing  in 
flat  tiuts ; but  all  this  manual  practice  does  not  in  the  least 
increase  the  student’s  power  of  determining  what  the  tint  of  a 
given  object  actually  is.  He  would  be  more  advanced  in  the 
knowledge  of  the  facts  by  a single  hour  of  well-directed  and 
w^W-corrected  effort,  rubbing  out  and  putting  in  again,  lighten- 
ing, and  darkening,  and  scratching,  and  blotching,  in  patient 
endeavours  to  obtain  concordance  with  fact,  issuing  perhaps, 
after  all,  in  total  destruction  or  unpresentability  of  the  draw- 
ing ; but  also  in  acute  perception  of  the  things  he  has  been 


CAMBRIDGE  SCHOOL  OF  ART. 


5 


attempting  to  copy  in  it.  Of  course,  there  is  always  a vast 
temptation,  felt  both  by  the  master  and  student,  to  struggle 
towards  visible  results,  and  obtain  something  beautiful,  credit- 
able, or  saleable,  in  way  of  actual  drawing : but  the  more  I 
see  of  schools,  the  more  reason  I see  to  look  with  doubt  upon 
those  which  produce  too  many  showy  and  complete  works  by 
the  pupils.  A showy  work  will  al^vays  be  found,  on  stern 
examination  of  it,  to  have  been  done  by  some  conventional 
rule; — some  servile  compliance  with  directions  which  the 
student  does  not  see  the  reason  for;  and  representation  of 
truths  which  he  has  not  himself  perceived  : the  execution  of 
such  drawings  will  be  found  monotonous  and  lifeless ; their 
light  and  shade  specious  and  formal,  but  false.  A drawing 
which  the  pupil  has  learned  much  in  doing,  is  nearly  always 
full  of  blunders  and  mishaps,  and  it  is  highly  necessary  for  the 
formation  of  a truly  public  or  universal  school  of  Art,  that 
the  masters  should  not  try  to  conceal  or  anticipate  such 
blunders,  but  only  seek  to  employ  the  pupil’s  time  so  as  to  get 
the  most  precious  results  for  his  understanding  and  his  heart, 
not  for  his  hand. 

For,  observe,  the  best  that  you  can  do  in  the  production  of 
drawing,  or  of  draughtsmanship,  must  always  be  nothing  in 
itself,  unless  the  whole  life  be  given  to  it.  An  amateur’s 
drawing,  or  a workman’s  drawing — anybody’s  drawing  but  an 
artist’s,  is  always  valueless  in  itself.  It  may  be,  as  you  have 
just  heard  Mr.  Redgrave  tell  you,  most  precious  as  a memo- 
rial, or  as  a gift,  or  as  a means  of  noting  useful  facts  ; but  as 
Ai%  an  amateur’s  drawing  is  always  wholly  worthless ; and  it 
ought  to  be  one  of  our  great  objects  to  make  the  pupil  under- 
stand and  feel  that,  and  prevent  his  trying  to  make  his  value- 
less work  look,  in  some  superficial,  hypocritical,  eye-catching, 
penny-catchiug  way,  like  work  that  is  really  good. 

If,  therefore,  we  have  to  do  with  pupils  belonging  to  the 
higher  ranks  of  life,  our  main  duty  will  be  to  make  them 
good  judges  of  Art,  rather  than  artists ; for  though  I had  a 
month  to  speak  to  you,  instead  of  an  hour,  time  would  fail 
me  if  I tried  to  trace  the  various  ways  in  which  we  suffer, 


6 


INAUGURAL  ADDRESS  AT  THE 


nationally,  for  want  of  powers  -of  enlightened  judgment  of 
Art  in  our  upper  and  middle  classes.  Not  that  this  judgment 
can  ever  be  obtained  without  discipline  of  the  hand  : no  man 
ever  was  a thorough  judge  of  painting  who  could  not  drav/  ; 
but  the  drawing  should  only  be  thought  of  as  a means  of  fix- 
ing his  attention  upon  the  subtleties  -of  the  Art  put  before 
him,  or  of  enabling  him  to  record  such  natural  facts  as  are 
necessary  for  comparison  with  it.  I should  also  attach  the 
greatest  importance  to  severe  limitation  of  choice  in  the  ex- 
amples submitted  to  him.  To  study  one  good  master  till  you 
understand  him  will  teach  you  more  than  a superficial  ac- 
quaintance with  a thousand  : power  of  criticism  does  not  con- 
sist in  knowing  the  names  or  the  manner  of  many  painters, 
but  in  discerning  the  excellence  of  a few. 

If,  on  the  contrary,  our  teaching  is  addressed  more  defi- 
nitely to  the  operative,  we  need  not  endeavour  to  render  his 
powers  of  criticism  very  acute.  About  many  forms  of  exist- 
ing Art,  the  less  he  knows  the  better.  His  sensibilities  are 
to  be  cultivated  with  respect  to  nature  chiefly ; and  his  imagi- 
nation, if  possible,  to  be  developed,  even  though  somewhat  to 
the  disadvantage  of  his  judgment.  It  is  better  that  his  work 
should  be  bold,  than  faultless ; and  better  that  it  should  be 
delightful,  than  discreet. 

And  this  leads  me  to  the  second,  or  commercial,  question  ; 
namely,  how  to  get  from  the  workman,  after  we  have  trained 
him,  the  best  and  most  precious  work,  so  as  to  enable  our- 
selves to  compete  with  foreign  countries,  or  develop  new 
branches  of  commerce  in  our  own. 

Many  of  us,  perhaps,  are  under  the  impression  that  plenty 
of  schooling  will  do  this ; that  plenty  of  lecturing  will  do  it ; 
that  sending  abroad  for  patterns  will  do  it ; or  that  patience, 
time,  and  money,  and  goodwill  may  do  it.  And,  alas,  none 
of  these  things,  nor  all  of  them  put  together,  will  do  it.  If 
you  want  really  good  work,  such  as  will  be  acknowledged  by 
all  the  world,  there  is  but  one  way  of  getting  it,  and  that  is  a 
difficult  one.  You  may  offer  any  premium  you  choose  for  it 
— but  you  will  And  it  can’t  be  done  for  premiums.  You  may 


CAMBRIDGE  SCHOOL  OF  ART. 


7 


send  for  patterns  to  the  antipodes — but  you  will  find  it  can’t 
be  done  upon  patterns.  You  may  lecture  on  the  principles  of 
Art  to  every  school  in  the  kingdom — and  you  will  find  it 
can’t  be  done  upon  principles.  You  may  wait  patiently  for 
the  progress  of  the  age — and  you  will  find  your  Art  is  unpro- 
gressive. Or  you  may  set  yourselves  impatiently  to  urge  it 
by  the  inventions  of  the  age — and  you  will  find  your  chariot 
of  Art  entirely  immovable  either  by  screw  or  paddle.  There’s 
no  way  of  getting  good  Art,  I repeat,  but  one — at  once  the 
simplest  and  most  difficult — namely,  to  enjoy  it.  Examine 
the  history  of  nations,  and  you  will  find  this  great  fact  clear 
and  unmistakable  on  the  front  of  it — that  good  Art  has  only 
been  produced  by  nations  who  rejoiced  in  it ; fed  themselves 
with  it,  as  if  it  were  bread ; basked  in  it,  as  if  it  were  sun- 
shine ; shouted  at  the  sight  of  it ; danced  with  the  delight  of 
it ; quarrelled  for  it ; fought  for  it ; starved  for  it ; did,  in 
fact,  precisely  the  opposite  with  it  of  what  we  want  to  do 
with  it — they  made  it  to  keep,  and  we  to  sell. 

And  truly  this  is  a serious  diflSculty  for  us  as  a commercial 
nation.  The  very  primary  motive  with  which  we  set  about 
the  business,  makes  the  business  impossible.  The  first  and 
absolute  condition  of  the  thing’s  ever  becoming  saleable  is, 
that  we  shall  make  it  without  wanting  to  sell  it ; nay,  rather 
with  a determination  not  to  sell  it  at  any  price,  if  once  we  get 
hold  of  it.  Try  to  make  your  Art  popular,  cheap — a fair 
article  for  your  foreign  market ; and  the  foreign  market  will 
always  show  something  better.  But  make  it  only  to  please 
yourselves,  and  even  be  resolved  that  you  won’t  let  anybody 
else  have  any;  and  forthwith  you  will  find  everybody  else 
wants  it.  And  observe,  the  insuperable  difiiculty  is  this  mak- 
ing it  to  please  ourselves,  while  we  are  incapable  of  pleasure. 
Take,  for  instance,  the  simplest  example,  which  we  can  all 
understand,  in  the  art  of  dress.  We  have  made  a great  fuss 
about  the  patterns  of  silk  lately;  wanting  to  vie  with  Lyons, 
and  make  a Paris  of  London.  Well,  we  may  try  for  ever  : so 
long  as  we  don’t  really  enjoy  silk  patterns,  we  shall  never  get 
any.  And  we  don’t  enjoy  them.  Of  course,  all  ladies  like 


8 


INAUGURAL  ADDRESS  AT  THE 


their  dresses  to  sit  well,  and  be  becoming ; but  of  real  enjoy- 
ment of  the  beauty  of  the  silk,  for  the  silk’s  own  sake,  I find 
none ; for  the  test  of  that  enjoyment  is,  that  they  would  like 
it  also  to  sit  well,  and  look  well,  on  somebody  else.  The 
pleasure  of  being  well  dressed,  or  even  of  seeing  well-dressed 
people — for  I will  suppose  in  my  fair  hearers  that  degree  of 
unselfishness — be  that  pleasure  great  or  small,  is  quite  a differ- 
ent thing  from  delight  in  the  beauty  and  play  of  the  silken 
folds  and  colours  themselves,  for  their  own  gorgeousness  or 
grace. 

I have  just  had  a remarkable  proof  of  the  total  want  of  this 
feeling  in  the  modern  mind.  I was  staying  part  of  this  sum- 
mer in  Turin,  for  the  purpose  of  studying  one  of  the  Paul 
Veroneses  there — the  presentation  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba  to 
Solomon.  Well,  one  of  the  most  notable  characters  in  this 
picture  is  the  splendour  of  its  silken  dresses : and,  in  particu- 
lar, there  was  a piece  of  white  brocade,  with  designs  upon  it 
in  gold,  which  it  was  one  of  my  chief  objects  in  stopping  at 
Turin  to  copy.  You  may,  perhaps,  be  surprised  at  this ; but 
I must  just  note  in  passing,  that  I share  this  weakness  of 
enjoying  dress  patterns  with  all  good  students  and  all  good 
painters.  It  doesn’t  matter  what  school  they  belong  to — Fra 
Angelico,  Perugino,  John  Bellini,  Giorgione,  Titian,  Tintoret, 
Veronese,  Leonardo  da  Vinci — no  matter  how  they  differ  in 
other  respects,  all  of  them  like  dress  patterns ; and  what  is 
more,  the  nobler  the  painter  is,  the  surer  he  is  to  do  his  pat- 
terns well. 

I stayed  then,  as  I say,  to  make  a study  of  this  white  bro- 
cade. It  generally  happens  in  public  galleries  that  the  best 
pictures  are  the  worst  placed : and  this  Veronese  is  not  only 
hung  at  considerable  height  above  the  eye,  but  over  a door, 
through  which,  however,  as  all  the  visitors  to  the  gallery  must 
pass,  they  cannot  easily  overlook  the  picture,  though  they 
would  find  great  difficulty  in  examining  it.  Beside  this  door, 
I had  a stage  erected  for  my  work,  which  being  of  some 
height  and  rather  in  a corner,  enabled  me  to  observe,  without 
being  observed  myself,  the  impression  made  by  the  picture  on 


CAMBRIDGE  SCHOOL  OF  ART. 


9 


the  various  visitors.  It  seemed  to  me  that  if  ever  a work  of 
Art  caught  popular  attention,  this  ought  to  do  so.  It  was  of 
very  large  size ; of  brilliant  colour,  and  of  agreeable  subject. 
There  are  about  twenty  figures  in  it,  the  principal  ones  being 
life  size : that  of  Solomon,  though  in  the  shade,  is  by  far  the 
most  perfect  conception  of  the  young  king  in  his  pride  of 
wisdom  and  beauty  which  I know  in  the  range  of  Italian  art ; 
the  queen  is  one  of  the  loveliest  of  Veronese’s  female  figures; 
all  the  accessories  are  full  of  grace  and  imagination ; and  the 
finish  of  the  whole  so  perfect  that  one  day  I was  upwards  of 
two  hours  vainly  trying  to  render,  with  perfect  accuracy,  the 
curves  of  two  leaves  of  the  brocaded  silk.  The  English 
travellers  used  to  walk  through  the  room  in  considerable 
numbers ; and  were  invariably  directed  to  the  picture  by  their 
laquais  de  place,  if  they  missed  seeing  it  themselves.  And  to 
this  painting — in  which  it  took  me  six  weeks  to  examine 
rightly  two  figures — I found  that  on  an  average,  the  English 
traveller  who  was  doing  Italy  conscientiously,  and  seeing 
everything  as  he  thought  he  ought,  gave  about  half  or  three 
quarters  of  a minute ; but  the  fiying  or  fashionable  traveller, 
who  came  to  do  as  much  as  he  could  in  a given  time,  never 
gave  more  than  a single  glance,  most  of  such  people  turning 
aside  instantly  to  a bad  landscape  hung  on  the  right,  contain- 
ing a vigorously  painted  white  wall,  and  an  opaque  green 
moat.  What  especially  impressed  me,  however,  was  that 
none  of  the  ladies  ever  stopped  to  look  at  the  dresses  in  the 
Veronese.  Certainly  they  were  far  more  beautiful  than  any 
in  the  shops  in  the  great  square,  yet  no  one  ever  noticed  them. 
Sometimes  when  any  nice,  sharp-looking,  bright-eyed  girl 
came  into  the  room,  I used  to  watch  her  all  the  way,  thinking 
— Come,  at  least  you’ll  see  what  the  Queen  of  Sheba  has 
got  on.”  But  no — on  she  would  come  carelessly,  with  a little 
toss  of  the  head,  apparently  signifying  nothing  in  this  room 
worth  looking  at — except  myself,”  and  so  trip  through  the 
door,  and  away. 

The  fact  is,  we  don’t  care  for  pictures : in  very  deed  we 
don’t.  The  Academy  exhibition  is  a thing  to  talk  of  and 


10 


IKAUGUKAL  ADDRESS  AT  THE 


to  aiHDse  vacaDt  hours ; those  who  are  rich  amongst  us  buy  a 
painting  or  two,  for  mixed  reasons,  sometimes  to  fill  the 
corner  of  a passage — sometimes  to  help  the  drawing-room  talk 
before  dinner — sometimes  because  the  painter  is  fashionable — 
occasionally  because  he  is  poor — not  unrfrequently  that  we  may 
have  a collection  of  specimens  of  painting,  as  we  have  speci- 
mens of  minerals  or  butterfiies — and  in  the  best  and  rarest 
case  of  all,  because  we  have  really,  as  we  call  it,  taken  a fancy 
to  the  picture ; meaning  the  same  sort  of  fancy  which  one 
would  take  to  a pretty  arm-chair  or  a newly  shaped  decanter. 
But  as  for  real  love  of  the  picture,  and  joy  of  it  when  we 
have  got  it,  I do  not  believe  it  is  felt  by  one  in  a thousand. 

I am  afraid  this  apathy  of  ours  will  not  be  easily  conquered ; 
but  even  supposing  it  should,  and  that  we  should  begin  to 
enjoy  pictures  properly,  and  that  the  supply  of  good  ones 
increased  as  in  that  case  it  would  increase — then  comes  another 
question.  Perhaps  some  of  my  hearers  this  evening  may 
occasionally  have  heard  it  stated  of  me  that  I am  rather  apt  to 
contradict  myself.  I hope  I am  exceedingly  apt  to  do  so.  I 
never  met  with  a question  yet,  of  any  importance,  which  did 
not  need,  for  the  right  solution  of  it,  at  least  one  positive  and 
one  negative  answer,  like  an  equation  of  the  second  degree. 
Mostly,  matters  of  any  consequence  are  three-sided,  or  four- 
sided, or  polygonal ; and  the  trotting  round  a polygon  is 
severe  work  for  people  any  way  stiff  in  their  opinions.  For 
myself,  I am  never  satisfied  that  I have  handled  a subject 
properly  till  I have  contradicted  myself  at  least  three  times : 
but  once  must  do  for  this  evening.  I have  just  said  that 
there  is  no  chance  of  our  getting  good  Art  unless  we  delight 
in  it : next  I say,  and  just  as  positively,  that  there  is  no  chance 
of  our  getting  good  Art  unless  we  resist  our  delight  in  it. 
We  must  love  it  first,  and  restrain  our  love  for  it  afterwards. 

This  sounds  strange ; and  yet  I assure  you  it  is  true.  In  fact, 
whenever  anything  does  not  sound  strange,  you  may  gener- 
ally doubt  its  being  true;  for  all  truth  is  wonderful.  But 
take  an  instance  in  physical  matters,  of  the  same  kind  of 
contradiction.  Suppose  you  were  explaining  to  a young 


CAMBRIDGE  SCHOOL  OF  ART. 


11 


student  in  astronomy  how  the  earth  was  kept  steady  in  its 
orbit ; you  would  have  to  state  to  him — would  you  not  ? — that 
the  earth  always  had  a tendency  to  fall  to  the  sun ; and  that 
also  it  always  had  a tendency  to  fly  away  from  the  sun.  These 
are  two  precisely  contrary  statements  for  him  to  digest  at  his 
leisure,  before  he  can  understand  how  the  earth  moves.  Now, 
in  like  manner,  when  art  is  set  in  its  true  and  serviceable 
course,  it  moves  under  the  luminous  attraction  of  pleasure  on 
the  one  side,  and  with  a stout  moral  purpose  of  going  about 
some  useful  business  on  the  other.  If  the  artist  works  without 
delight,  he  passes  away  into  space,  and  perishes  of  cold : if  he 
works  only  for  delight,  he  falls  into  the  sun,  and  extinguishes 
himself  in  ashes.  On  the  whole,  this  last  is  the  fate,  I do  not 
say  the  most  to  be  feared,  but  which  Art  has  generally  hither- 
to suffered,  and  which  the  great  nations  of  the  earth  have 
suffered  with  it. 

For,  while  most  distinctly  you  may  perceive  in  past  history 
that  Art  has  never  been  produced,  except  by  nations  who  took 
pleasure  in  it,  just  as  assuredly,  and  even  more  plainly,  you 
may  perceive  that  Art  has  always  destroyed  the  power  and 
life  of  those  who  pursued  it  for  pleasure  only.  Surely  this 
fact  must  have  struck  you  as  you  glanced  at  the  career  of  the 
great  nations  of  the  earth : surely  it  must  have  occurred  to  you 
as  a point  for  serious  questioning,  how  far,  even  in  our  days, 
we  were  wise  in  promoting  the  advancement  of  pleasures 
which  appeared  as  yet  only  to  have  corrupted  the  souls  and 
numbed  the  strength  of  those  who  attained  to  them.  I have 
been  complaining  of  England  that  she  despises  the  Arts ; but 
I might,  with  still  more  appearance  of  justice,  complain  that 
she  does  not  rather  dread  them  than  despise.  For,  what  has 
been  the  source  of  the  ruin  of  nations  since  the  world  began  ? 
Has  it  been  plague,  or  famine,  earthquake-shock  or  volcano- 
flame  ? None  of  these  ever  prevailed  against  a great  people, 
so  as  to  make  their  name  pass  from  the  earth.  In  every  pe- 
riod and  place  of  national  decline,  you  will  And  other  causes 
than  these  at  work  to  bring  it  about,  namely,  luxury,  effemi- 
nacy, love  of  pleasure,  flneness  in  Art,  ingenuity  in  enjoyment. 


12 


INAUGURAL  ADDRESS  AT  THE 


What  is  the  main  lesson  which,  as  far  as  we  seek  any  in  onr 
classical  reading,  we  gather  for  our  youth  from  ancient  history  ? / 
Surely  this — that  simplicity  of  life,  of  language,  and  of  man- 
ners gives  strength  to  a nation ; and  that  luxuriousness  of  life, 
subtlety  of  language,  and  smoothness  of  manners  bring  weak- 
ness and  destruction  on  a nation.  While  men  possess  little  and 
desire  less,  they  remain  brave  and  noble : while  they  are  scorn- 
ful of  all  the  arts  of  luxury,  and  are  in  the  sight  of  other  na- 
tions as  barbarians,  their  swords  are  irresistible  and  their  sway 
illimitable : but  let  them  become  sensitive  to  the  refinements 
of  taste,  and  quick  in  the  capacities  of  pleasure,  and  that  in- 
stant the  fingers  that  had  grasped  the  iron  rod,  fail  from  the 
golden  sceptre.  You  cannot  charge  me  with  any  exaggeration 
in  this  matter ; it  is  impossible  to  state  the  truth  too  strongly, 
or  as  too  universal.  For  ever  you  will  see  the  rude  and  sim- 
ple nation  at  once  more  virtuous  and  more  victorious  than  one 
practised  in  the  arts.  Watch  how  the  Lydian  is  overthrown 
by  the  Persian ; the  Persian  by  the  Athenian ; the  Athenian 
by  the  Spartan ; then  the  whole  of  polished  Greece  by  the 
rougher  Roman ; the  Roman,  in  his  turn  refined,  only  to  be 
crushed  by  the  Goth : and  at  the  turning  point  of  the  middle 
ages,  the  liberty  of  Europe  first  asserted,  the  virtues  of  Chris- 
tianity best  practised,  and  its  doctrines  best  attested,  by  a hand- 
ful of  mountain  shepherds,  without  art,  without  literature, 
almost  without  a language,  yet  remaining  unconquered  in  the 
midst  of  the  Teutonic  chivalry,  and  uncorrupted  amidst  the 
hierarchies  of  Rome."^ 

1 was  strangely  struck  by  this  great  fact  during  the  course 
of  a journey  last  summer  among  the  northern  vales  of  Switzer- 
land. My  mind  had  been  turned  to  the  subject  of  the  ulti- 

I ought  perhaps  to  remind  the  reader  that  this  statement  refers  to  two 
different  societies  among  the  Alps  ; the  Waldenses  in  the  13th,  and  the  peo- 
ple of  the  Forest  Cantons  in  the  14th  and  following  centuries.  Protestants 
are  ijerhaps  apt  sometimes  to  forget  that  the  virtues  of  these  mountaineers 
were  shown  in  connection  with  vital  forms  of  opposing  religions ; and  that 
the  patriots  of  Schwytz  and  Uri  were  as  zealous  Koman  Catholics  as  they 
were  good  soldiers.  We  have  to  lay  to  their  charge  the  death  of  Zuinglius 
as  wed  as  of  Gessler. 


CAMBRIDGE  SCHOOL  OF  ART. 


13 


mate  effects  of  Art  on  national  mind  before  I left  England, 
and  I went  straight  to  the  chief  fields  of  Swiss  history  : first 
to  the  centre  of  her  feudal  power,  Hapsburg,  the  hawk’s  nest 
from  which  the  Swiss  Eodolph  rose  to  found  the  Austrian 
empire ; and  then  to  the  heart  of  her  republicanism,  that  little 
glen  of  Morgarten,  where  first  in  the  history  of  Europe  the 
shepherd’s  staff  prevailed  over  the  soldier’s  spear.  And  it 
was  somewhat  depressing  to  me  to  find,  as  day  by  day  I found 
more  certainly,  that  this  people  which  first  asserted  the  liber- 
ties of  Europe,  and  first  conceived  the  idea  of  equitable  laws, 
was  in  all  the — shall  I call  them  the  slighter,  or  the  higher  ? — 
sensibilities  of  the  human  mind,  utterly  deficient;  and  not 
only  had  remained  from  its  earliest  ages  till  now,  without 
poetry,  without  Art,  and  without  music,  except  a mere  modu- 
lated cry ; but,  as  far  as  I could  judge  from  the  rude  efforts 
of  their  early  monuments,  would  have  been,  at  the  time  of 
their  greatest  national  probity  and  power,  incapable  of  pro- 
ducing-good  poetry  or  Art  under  any  circumstances  of  educa- 
tion. 

I say,  this  was  a sad  thing  for  me  to  find.  And  then,  to 
mend  the  matter,  I went  straight  over  into  Italy,  and  came  at 
once  upon  a curious  instance  of  the  patronage  of  Art,  of  the 
character  that  usually  inclines  most  to  such  patronage,  and  of 
the  consequences  thereof. 

From  Morgarten  and  Grutli,  I intended  to  have  crossed  to 
the  Vaudois  Valleys,  to  examine  the  shepherd  character  there ; 
but  on  the  way  I had  to  pass  through  Turin,  where  unex- 
pectedly I found  the  Paul  Veroneses,  one  of  which,  as  I told 
you  just  now,  stayed  me  at  once  for  six  weeks.  Naturally 
enough,  one  asked  how  these  beautiful  Veroneses  came  there  : 
and  found  they  had  been  commissioned  by  Cardinal  Maurice 
of  Savoy.  Worthy  Cardinal,  I thought:  that’s  what  Cardi- 
nals were  made  for.  However,  going  a little  farther  in  the 
gallery,  one  comes  upon  four  very  graceful  pictures  by  Albani 
— these  also  commissioned  by  the  Cardinal,  and  commissioned 
with  special  directions,  according  to  the  Cardinal’s  fancy. 
Four  pictures,  to  be  illustrative  of  the  four  elements. 


14 


INAUGURAL  ADDRESS  AT  THE 


One  of  the  most  curious  things  in  the  mind  of  the  people  of 
that  century  is  their  delight  in  these  four  elements,  and  in  the 
four  seasons.  They  had  hardly  any  other  idea  of  decorating  a 
room,  or  of  choosing  a subject  for  a picture,  than  by  some  re- 
newed reference  to  tire  and  water,  or  summer  and  winter ; nor 
were  ever  tired  of  hearing  that  summer  came  after  spring,  and 
that  air  was  not  earth,  until  these  interesting  pieces  of  infor- 
mation got  finally  and  poetically  expressed  in  that  well-known 
piece  of  elegant  English  conversation  about  the  weather, 
Thomson’s  Seasons.”  So  the  Cardinal,  not  appearing  to  have 
any  better  idea  than  the  popular  one,  orders  the  four  elements ; 
but  thinking  that  the  elements  pure  would  be  slightly  dull,  he 
orders  them,  in  one  way  or  another,  to  be  mixed  up  with  Cu- 
pids ; to  have,  in  his  own  words,  una  copiosa  quantita  di 
Amorini.”  Albani  supplied  the  Cardinal  accordingly  with 
Cupids  in  clusters ; they  hang  in  the  sky  like  bunches  of  cher- 
ries ; and  leap  out  of  the  sea  like  fiying  fish  ; grpw  out  of  the 
earth  in  fairy  rings  ; and  explode  out  the  fire  like  squibs.  No 
work  whatsoever  is  done  in  any  of  the  four  elements,  but  by 
the  Cardinal’s  Cupids.  They  are  ploughing  the  earth  with 
their  arrows;  fishing  in  the  sea  with  their  bow-strings ; driving 
the  clouds  with  their  breath ; and  fanning  the  fire  with  their 
wings.  A few  beautiful  nymphs  are  assisting  them  here  and 
there  in  pearl-fishing,  fiower-gathering,  and  other  such  branches 
of  graceful  industry  ; the  moral  of  the  whole  being,  that  the 
sea  was  made  for  its  pearls,  the  earth  for  its  fiowers,  and  all 
the  world  for  pleasure. 

Well,  the  Cardinal,  this  great  encourager  of  the  arts,  having 
these  industrial  and  social  theories,  carried  them  out  in  prac- 
tice, as  you  may  perhaps  remember,  by  obtaining  a dispen- 
sation from  the  Pope  to  marry  his  own  niece,  and  building 
a villa  for  her  on  one  of  the  slopes  of  the  pretty  hills  which 
rise  to  the  east  of  the  city.  The  villa  which  he  built  is  now 
one  of  the  principal  objects  of  interest  to  the  traveller  as  an  ex- 
ample of  Italian  domestic  architecture  : tome,  during  my  stay 
in  the  city,  it  was  much  more  than  an  object  of  interest ; for 
its  deserted  gardens  were  by  much  the  pleasantest  place  1 could 


CAMBEIDGE  SCHOOL  OF  ART. 


15 


find  for  walking  or  thinking  in,  in  the  hot  summer  after^ 
noons. 

I say  thinking,  for  these  gardens  often  gave  me  a good  deal 
to  think  about.  They  are,  as  I told  you,  on  the  slope  of  the 
hill  above  the  city,  to  the  east ; commanding,  therefore,  the 
view  over  it  and  beyond  it,  westward — a view  which,  perhaps, 
of  all  those  that  can  be  obtained  north  of  the  Apennines,  gives 
the  most  comprehensive  idea  of  the  nature  of  Italy,  considered 
as  one  great  country.  If  you  glance  at  the  map,  you  will  ob- 
serve that  Turin  is  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  crescent  which 
the  Alps  form  round  the  basin  of  Piedmont;  it  is  within  ten 
miles  of  the  foot  of  the  mountains  at  the  nearest  point ; and 
from  that  point  the  chain  extends  half  round  the  city  in  one 
unbroken  Moorish  crescent,  forming  three-fourths  of  a circle 
from  the  Col  de  Tende  to  the  St.  Gothard ; that  is  to  say,  just 
two  hundred  miles  of  Alps,  as  the  bird  fiies.  I don’t  speak 
rhetorically  or  carelessly ; I speak  as  I ought  to  speak  here — 
with  mathematical  precision.  Take  the  scale  on  your  map  ; 
measure  fifty  miles  of  it  accurately ; try  that  measure  from  the 
Col  de  Tende  to  the  St.  Gothard,  and  you  will  find  that  four 
chords  of  fifty  miles  will  not  quite  reach  to  the  two  extremi- 
ties of  the  curve. 

You  see,  then,  from  this  spot,  the  plain  of  Piedmont,  on 
the  north  and  south,  literally  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach ; so 
that  the  plain  terminates  as  the  sea  does,  with  a level  blue 
line,  only  tufted  with  woods  instead  of  waves,  and  crowded 
with  towers  of  cities  instead  of  ships.  Then,  in  the  luminous 
air  beyond  and  behind  tins  blue  horizon-line,  stand,  as  it  were, 
the  shadows  of  mountains,  they  themselves  dark,  for  the  south- 
ern slopes  of  the  Alps  of  the  Lago  Maggiore  and  Bellinzona 
are  all  without  snow ; but  the  light  of  the  unseen  snowfields, 
lying  level  behind  the  visible  peaks,  is.  sent  up  with  strange 
rellection  upon  the  clouds ; an  everlasting  light  of  calm  Aurora 
in  the  north.  Then,  higher  and  higher  around  the  approach- 
ing darkness  of  the  plain,  rise  the  central  chains,  hot  as  on 
the  Switzer’s  side,  a recognizable  group  and  following  of  suc- 
cessive and  separate  hills,  but  a wilderness  of  jagged  peaks^ 


16 


II^AUGURAL  ADDRESS  AT  THE 


cast  in  passionate  and  fierce  profnsion  along  the  circumference 
of  heaven  : precipice  behind  precipice,  and  gulf  beyond  gulf, 
filled  with  the  fiaining  of  the  sunset,  and  forming  mighty 
channels  for  the  fiowings  of  the  clouds,  which  roll  up  against 
them  out  of  the  vast  Italian  plain,  forced  together  by  the  nar- 
rowing crescent,  and  breaking  up  at  last  against  the  Alpine 
wall  in  towers  of  spectral  spray ; or  sweeping  up  its  ravines 
with  long  moans  of  complaining  thunder.  Out  from  between 
the  cloudy  pillars,  as  they  pass,  emerge  for  ever  the  great  bat- 
tlements of  the  memorable  and  perpetual  hills:  Yiso,  witli  her 
shepherd-witnesses  to  ancient  faith ; Kocca-Melone,  the  high- 
est place  of  Alpine  pilgrimage  ;*  Iseran,  who  shed  her  burial 
sheets  of  snow  about  the  march  of  Hannibal ; Cenis,  who 
shone  with  her  glacier  light  on  the  descent  of  Charlemagne ; 
Paradise,  who  watched  with  her  opposite  crest  the  stoop  of 
the  French  eagle  to  Marengo ; and  underneath  all  these,  lyiug 
in  her  soft  languor,  this  tender  Italy,  lapped  in  dews  of  sleep, 
or  more  than  sleep — one  knows  not  if  it  is  trance,  from  which 
morning  shall  yet  roll  the  blinding  mists  away,  or  if  the  fair 
shadows  of  her  quietude  are  indeed  the  shades  of  purple 
death.  And,  lifted  a little  above  this  solemn  plain,  and  look- 
ing beyond  it  to  its  snowy  ramparts,  vainly  guardian,  stands 
this  palace  dedicate  to  pleasure,  the  whole  legend  of  Italy’s 
past  history  written  before  it  by  the  finger  of  God,  written  as 
with  an  iron  pen  upon  the  rock  for  ever,  on  all  those  fronting 

* The  summit  of  Rocca -Melone  is  the  sharp  peak  seen  from  Turin  on  the 
right  hand  of  the  gorge  of  the  Cenis,  dominant  over  the  low  projecting 
pyramid  of  the  hill  called  by  De  Saussure  Montagne  de  Musinet.  Rocca- 
Melone  rises  to  a height  of  11,000  feet  above  the  sea,  and  its  peak  is  a place 
of  pilgrimage  to  this  day,  though  it  seems  temporarily  to  have  ceased  to  be 
so  in  the  time  of  De  Saussure,  who  thus  speaks  of  it : 

‘‘  II  y a eu  pendant  long-terns  sur  cette  cime,  une  petite  chapelle  avec  une 
image  de  Notre  Dame  qui  etoit  en  grande  veneration  dans  le  pays,  et  ou  un 
grand  nombre  de  gens  alloient  au  mois  d’aout  en  procession,  de  Suze  et 
des  environs ; mais  le  sentier  qui  conduit  a cette  chapelle  est  si  etroit  et  si 
scahreux  qudl  n’y  avoit  presque  pas  d’annees  qu’il  n’y  perit  du  monde  ; la 
fatigue  et  la  rarete  de  Fair  saisissoient  ceux  qui  avoient  plutot  consulte  leur 
devotion  que  leurs  forces ; ils  tomherent  en  defaillance,  et  de  la  dans  le 
precipice.*’ 


CAMBBIDGE  SCHOOL  OF  AET. 


17 


walls  of  reproachful  Alp ; blazoned  in  gold  of  lightning  upon 
the  clouds  that  still  open  and  close  their  unsealed  scrolls  in 
heaven  ; painted  in  purple  and  scarlet  upon  the  mighty  mis- 
sal pages  of  sunset  after  sunset,  spread  vainly  before  a nation’s 
eyes  for  a nation’s  prayer.  So  stands  this  palace  of  pleasure  ; 
desolate  as  it  deserves — desolate  in  smooth  corridor  and  glit- 
tering chamber— desolate  in  pleached  walk  and  planted  bower 
— desolate  in  that  worst  and  bitterest  abandonment  which 
leaves  no  light  of  memory.  No  ruins  are  here  of  walls  rent 
by  war,  and  falling  above  their  defenders  into  mounds  of 
graves : no  remnants  are  here  of  chapel-altar,  or  temple-porch, 
left  shattered  or  silent  by  the  power  of  some  purer  worship  : 
no  vestiges  are  here  of  sacred  hearth  and  sweet  homestead, 
left  lonely  through  vicissitudes  of  fate,  and  heaven-sent  sor- 
row. Nothing  is  here  but  the  vain  apparellings  of  pride  sunk 
into  dishonour,  and  vain  appanages  of  delight  now  no  more 
delightsome.  The  hill-waters,  that  once  flowed  and  plashed 
in  the  garden  fountains,  now  trickle  sadly  through  the  weeds 
that  encumber  their  basins,  with  a sound  as  of  tears : the 
creeping,  insidious,  neglected  flowers  weave  their  burning 
nets  about  the  white  marble  of  the  balustrades,  and  rend  them 
slowly,  block  from  block,  and  stone  from  stone:  the  thin, 
sweet-scented  leaves  tremble  along  the  old  masonry  joints 
as  if  with  palsy  at  every  breeze  ; and  the  dark  lichens,  golden 
and  grey,  make  the  foot-fall  silent  in  the  path’s  centre. 

And  day  by  day  as  I walked  there,  the  same  sentence 
seemed  whispered  by  every  shaking  leaf,  and  every  dying 
echo,  of  garden  and  chamber. 

Thus  end  all  the  arts  of  life,  only  in  death  ; and  thus 
issue  all  the  gifts  of  man,  only  in  his  dishonour,  when  they 
are  pursued  or  possessed  in  the  service  of  pleasure  only.” 

This  then  is  the  great  enigma  of  Art  History, — you  must 
not  follow  Art  without  pleasure,  nor  must  you  follow  it  for 
the  sake  of  pleasure.  And  the  solution  of  that  enigma,  is 
simply  this  fact ; that  wherever  Art  has  been  followed  only 
for  the  sake  of  luxury  or  delight,  it  has  contributed,  and 
largely  contributed,  to  bring  about  the  destruction  of  the 
2 


18 


INAUGUKAL  ADDRESS  AT  THE 


Dation  practising  it : but  wherever  Art  has  been  used  also 
to  teach  any  truth,  or  supposed  truth — religious,  moral,  or 
natural — there  it  has  elevated  the  nation  practising  it,  and 
itself  with  the  nation. 

Thus  the  Art  of  Greece  rose,  and  did  service  to  the  people, 
so  long  as  it  was  to  them  the  earnest  interpreter  of  a religion 
they  believed  in : the  Arts  of  northern  sculpture  and  archi- 
tecture rose,  as  interpreters  of  Christian  legend  and  doctrine : 
the  Art  of  painting  in  Italy,  not  only  as  religious,  but  also 
mainly  as  expressive  of  truths  of  moral  philosophy,  and  pow- 
erful in  human  portraiture.  The  only  great  painters  in  our 
schools  of  painting  in  England  have  either  been  of  portrait — 
Reynolds  and  Gainsborough  ; of  the  philosophy  of  social  life 
— Hogarth ; or  of  the  facts  of  nature  in  landscape — Wilson 
and  Turner.  In  all  these  cases,  if  I had  time,  I could  show 
you  that  the  success  of  the  painter  depended  on  his  desire  to 
convey  a truth,  rather  than  to  produce  a merely  beautiful 
picture  ; that  is  to  say,  to  get  a likeness  of  a man,  or  of  a 
place ; to  get  some  moral  principle  rightly  stated,  or  some 
historical  character  rightly  described,  rather  than  merely  to 
give  pleasure  to  the  eyes.  Compare  the  feeling  with  which  a 
Moorish  architect  decorated  an  arch  of  the  Alhambra,  with 
that  of  Hogarth  painting  the  “ Marriage  a la  Mode,’’  or  of 
Wilkie  painting  the  Chelsea  Pensioners,”  and  you  will  at 
once  feel  the  difference  between  Art  pursued  for  pleasure 
only,  and  for  the  sake  of  some  useful  principle  or  impression. 

But  what  you  might  not  so  easily  discern  is,  that  even  when 
painting  does  appear  to  have  been  pursued  for  pleasure  only, 
if  ever  you  find  it  rise  to  any  noble  level,  you  will  also  find 
that  a stern  search  after  truth  has  been  at  the  root  of  its  noble- 
ness. You  may  fancy,  perhaps,  that  Titian,  Veronese,  and 
Tintoret  were  painters  for  the  sake  of  pleasure  only  : but  in 
reality  they  were  the  only  painters  who  ever  sought  entirely 
to  master,  and  who  did  entirely  master,  the  truths  of  light 
and  shade  as  associated  with  colour,  in  the  noblest  of  all 
physical  created  things,  the  human  form.  Tliey  were  the 
only  men  who  ever  painted  the  human  body ; all  other 


CAMBRIDGE  SCHOOL  OF  ART. 


19 


painters  of  the  great  schools  are  mere  anatomical  draughtsmen 
compared  to  them  ; rather  makers  of  maps  of  the  body,  than 
painters  of  it.  The  Venetians  alone,  by  a toil  almost  super- 
human, succeeded  at  last  in  obtaining  a power  almost  super- 
human; and  were  able  finally  to  paint  the  highest  visible 
work  of  God  with  unexaggerated  structure,  undegraded 
colour,  and  unaffected  gesture.  It  seems  little  to  say  this ; 
but  I assure  you  it  is  much  to  have  done  this — so  much,  that 
no  other  men  but  the  Venetians  ever  did  it:  none  of  them 
ever  painted  the  human  body  without  in  some  degree  carica- 
turing the  anatomy,  forcing  the  action,  or  degrading  the  hue. 

Now,  therefore,  the  sum  of  all  is,  that  you  who  wish  to  en- 
courage Art  in  England  have  to  do  two  things  with  it : you 
must  delight  in  it,  in  the  first  place;  and  you  must  get  it  to 
serve  some  serious  work,  in  the  second  place.  I don’t  mean 
by  serious,  necessarily  moral ; all  that  I mean  by  serious  is  in 
some  way  or  other  useful,  not  merely  selfish,  careless,  or  in- 
dolent. I had,  indeed,  intended  before  closing  my  address, 
to  have  traced  out  a few  of  the  directions  in  which,  as  it 
seems  to  me.  Art  may  be  seriously  and  practically  serviceable 
to  us  in  the  career  of  civilization.  I had  hoped  to  show  you 
how  many  of  the  great  phenomena  of  nature  still  remained 
unrecorded  by  it,  for  ns  to  record ; how  many  of  the  historical 
monuments  of  Europe  were  perishing  without  memorial,  for 
the  want  of  a little  honest,  simple,  laborious,  loving  draughts- 
manship ; how  many  of  the  most  impressive  historical  events 
of  the  day  failed  of  teaching  us  half  of  what  they  were  meant 
to  teach,  for  want  of  painters  to  represent  them  faithfully,  in- 
stead of  fancifully,  and  with  historical  truth  for  their  aim, 
instead  of  national  self-glorification.  I had  hoped  to  show 
you  how  many  of  the  best  impulses  of  the  heart  were  lost  in 
frivolity  or  sensuality,  for  want  of  purer  beauty  to  contem- 
plate, and  of  noble  thoughts  to  associate  with  the  fervour  of 
hallowed  human  passion ; how,  finally,  a great  part  of  the 
vital  power  of  our  religious  faith  was  lost  in  us,  for  want  of 
such  art  as  would  realise  in  some  rational,  probable,  believable 
way,  those  events  of  sacred  history  which,  as  they  visibly  and 


20 


INAUGURAL  ADDRESS  AT  THE 


intelligibly  occurred,  may  also  be  visibly  and  intelligibly 
represented.  But  all  this  I dare  not  do  yet.  I felt,  as  I 
thought  over  these  things,  that  the  time  was  not  yet  come  for 
their  declaration : the  time  will  come  for  it,  and  I believe 
soon ; but  as  yet,  the  man  would  only  lay  himself  open  to  the 
charge  of  vanity,  of  imagination,  and  of  idle  fondness  of  hope, 
who  should  venture  to  trace  in  words  the  course  of  the  higher 
blessings  which  the  Arts  may  have  yet  in  store  for  mankind. 
As  yet  there  is  no  need  to  do  so : all  that  we  have  to  plead 
for  is  an  earnest  and  straightforward  exertion  in  those  courses 
of  study  which  are  open  to  us  day  by  day,  believing  only 
that  they  are  to  be  followed  gravely  and  for  grave  purposes, 
as  men,  and  not  by  children.  I appeal,  finally,  to  all  those 
who  are  to  become  the  pnpils  of  these  schools,  to  keep  clear 
of  the  notion  of  following  Art  as  dilettantism : it  ought  to 
delight  you,  as  your  reading  delights  you — but  you  never 
think  of  your  reading  as  dilettantism.  It  ought  to  delight 
you  as  your  studies  of  physical  science  delight  you — but  you 
don’t  call  physical  science  dilettantism.  If  you  are  deter- 
mined only  to  think  of  Art  as  a play  or  a pleasure,  give  it  up 
at  once  : you  will  do  no  good  to  yourselves,  and  you  will  de- 
grade the  pursuit  in  the  sight  of  others.  Better,  infinitely 
better,  that  you  should  never  enter  a picture  gallery,  than 
that  you  should  enter  only  to  saunter  and  to  smile : better, 
infinitely  better,  that  you  should  never  handle  a pencil  at  all, 
than  handle  it  only  for  the  sake  of  complacency  in  your  small 
dexterity  : better,  infinitely  better,  that  you  should  be  wholly 
uninterested  in  pictures,  and  uninformed  respecting  them, 
than  that  you  should  just  know  enough  to  detect  blemishes 
in  great  works, — to  give  a colour  of  reasonableness  to  pre- 
sumption, and  an  appearance  of  acuteness  to  misunderstand- 
ing. Above  all,  I would  plead  for  this  so  far  as  the  teaching 
of  these  schools  may  be  addressed  to  the  junior  Members  of 
the  University.  Men  employed  in  any  kind  of  manual 
labour,  by  which  they  must  live,  are  not  likely  to  take  up 
the  notion  that  they  can  learn  any  other  art  for  amusement 
only;  but  amateurs  are:  and  it  is  of  the  highest  importance, 


CAMBRIDGE  SCHOOL  OF  ART. 


21 


nay,  it  is  just  the  one  thing  of  all  importance,  to  show  them 
what  drawing  really  means ; and  not  so  much  to  teach  them 
to  produce  a good  work  themselves,  as  to  know  it  when  they 
see  it  done  by  others.  Good  work,  in  the  stern  sense  of  the 
word,  as  I before  said,  no  mere  amateur  can  do ; and  good 
work,  in  any  sense,  that  is  to  say,  profitable  work  for  himself 
or  for  any  one  else,  he  can  only  do  by  being  made  in  the 
beginning  to  see  what  is  possible  for  him,  and  w^hat  not ; — 
what  is  accessible,  and  what  not ; and  by  having  the 
majesty  and  sternness  of  the  everlasting  laws  of  fact  set  be- 
fore him  in  their  infinitude.  It  is  no  matter  for  appalling 
him : the  man  is  great  already  who  is  made  well  capable  of 
being  appalled  ; nor  do  we  ever  wisely  hope,  nor  truly  under- 
stand, till  we  are  humiliated  by  our  hope,  and  awestruck  by 
our  understanding.  Nay,  I will  go  farther  than  this,  and  say 
boldly,  that  what  you  may  have  mainly  to  teach  the  young 
men  here  is,  not  so  much  what  they  can  do,  as  what  they  can- 
not ; — to  make  them  see  how  much  there  is  in  nature  which 
cannot  be  imitated,  and  how  much  in  man  which  cannot  be 
emulated.  He  only  can  be  truly  said  to  be  educated  in  Art 
to  whom  all  his  work  is  only  a feeble  sign  of  glories  which  he 
cannot  convey,  and  a feeble  means  of  measuring,  with  ever- 
enlarging  admiration,  the  great  and  untraversable  gulf  which 
God  has  set  between  the  great  and  the  common  intelligences 
of  mankind : and  all  the  triumphs  of  Art  which  man  can 
commonly  achieve  are  only  truly  crowned  by  pure  delight  in 
natural  scenes  themselves,  and  by  the  sacred  and  self-forgetful 
veneration  which  can  be  nobly  abashed,  and  tremblingly  ex- 
alted, in  the  presence  of  a human  spirit  greater  than  his  own. 


CCELI  ENAEEANT 


STUDIES  OF  CLOUD  FORM 

AND  OF  ITS  VISIBLE  CAUSES. 


COLLECTED  AND  COMPLETED  OUT  OP 

“MODEEE  PAINTEES.” 


BY 

JOHN  KUSKIN, 

HONORARY  STUDENT  OF  CHRISTCHURCH,  HONORAHY  FELLOW  OF  CORPUS  CHRISTI  COLLEGE, 
AND  SLADE  PROFESSOR  OP  FINE  ART,  OXFORD. 


NEW  YORK  AND  SAINT  PAUL: 

D.  D.  MERRILL  COMPANY. 


PEEFACE. 


The  studies  of  the  nature  and  form  of  clouds,  reprinted  in 
the  following  pages  from  the  fourth  and  fifth  volumes  of 
‘Modern  Painters,’  will  be  in  this  series  third  in  order,  as  they 
are  in  those  volumes,  of  the  treatises  on  natural  history  which 
were  there  made  the  foundation  of  judgment  in  landscape  art. 
But  the  essay  on  trees  will  require  more  carefal  annotation 
than  I have  at  present  time  for,  and  I am  also  desirous  of 
placing  these  cloud  studies  quickly  in  hands  of  any  one 
who  may  have  been  interested  in  my  account  of  recent  storms. 

I find  nothing  to  alter, and  little  to  explain,  in  the  follow^- 
ing  portions  of  my  former  work,  in  which  such  passages  as 
the  eighth  and  ninth  paragraphs  of  the  opening  chapter — usu- 
ally thought  of  by  the  public  merely  as  word-painting,  but 
which  are  in  reality  accurately  abstracted,  and  linally  concen- 
trated, expressions  of  the  general  laws  of  natural  phenomena,f 
— are  indeed  among  the  best  I have  ever  written,  and  in  their 
way,  I am  not  ashamed  to  express  my  conviction,  unlikely  to 
be  surpassed  by  any  other  author.  But  it  may  be  necessary 


* Sometimes  a now  useless  reference  to  other  parts  of  the  book  is  omitted, 
or  one  necessary  to  connect  the  sentence  broken  by  such  omission ; other- 
wise I do  not  retouch  the  original  text. 

f Thus  the  sentence  at  page  7,  “murmuring  only  when  the  winds  raise 
them,  or  rocks  divide,”  does  not  describe,  or  word-paint,  the  sound  of  waters, 
but  (with  only  the  admitted  art  of  a carefully  reiterated  ‘ r ’)  sums  the  gen- 
eral causes  of  it ; while,  again,  the  immediately  following  one,  defining  the 
limitations  of  sea  and  river,  “restrained  by  established  shores,  and  guided 
through  unchanging  channels,”  attempts  no  word-painting  either  of  coast  or 
burnside  ; but  states,  with  only  such  ornament  of  its  simplicity  as  could  be 
got  of  the  doubled  ‘ t’  and  doubled  ‘ ch,’  the  fact  of  the  stability  of  existing 
rock  structure  which  I was,  at  that  time,  alone  among  geologists  in  asserting. 


IV 


PREFACE. 


to  advise  the  student  of  these  now  isolated  chapters  not  to  in- 
terpret any  of  their  expressions  of  awe  or  wonder  as  meaning  / 
to  attribute  any  supernatural,  or  in  any  special  sense  miracu- 
lous, character  to  the  phenomena  described,  other  than  that  of 
their  adaptation  to  human  feeling  or  need.  I did  not  in  the 
least  mean  to  insinuate,  because  it  was  not  easy  to  explain  tho 
buoyancy  of  clouds,  that  they  were  supported  in  the  air  as  Ct. 
Francis  in  his  ecstasy ; or  because  the  forms  of  a thunder- 
cloud were  terrific,  that  they  were  less  natural  than  those  of  a 
diamond ; but  in  all  the  forms  and  actions  of  non-sentient 
things,  I recognized,  (as  more  at  length  explained  in  the  con- 
clusion of  my  essay  on  the  plague  cloud)  constant  miracle, 
and  according  to  the  need  and  deserving  of  man,  more  or  less 
constantly  manifest  Deity.  Time,  and  times,  have  since  passed 
over  my  head,  and  have  taught  me  to  hope  for  more  than  this  ; 
— nay,  perhaps  so  much  more  as  that  in  English  cities,  where 
two  or  three  are  gathered  in  His  name,  such  vision  as  that  re- 
corded by  the  sea-king  Dandolo  * might  again  be  seen,  when 
he  was  commanded  that  in  the  midst  of  the  city  he  should 
build  a church,  ^^in  the  place  above  which  he  should  see  a red 
cloud  rest.’’ 

J.  Euskin. 

Oxford,  November  Sth,  1884. 


* St.  Mark’s. 


CCELI  ENARBANT, 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  FIRMAMENT. 

‘Modern  Painters,'  VoL  IV.,  Part  V.,  Chap.  VI. 

1.  The  task  wLicli  we  now  enter  npon,  as  explained  in  the 
close  of  the  preceding  chapter,  is  the  ascertaining  as  far  as 
possible  what  the  proper  effect  of  the  natural  beauty  of  differ- 
ent objects  ought  to  be  on  the  human  mind,  and  the  degree 
in  which  this  nature  of  theirs,  and  true  influence,  have  been 
understood  and  transmitted  by  Turner. 

I mean  to  begin  with  the  mountains,  for  the  sake  of  conve- 
nience in  illustration,  but,  in  the  proper  order  of  thought,  the 
clouds  ought  to  be  considered  first ; and  I think  it  will  be  w^ell, 
in  this  intermediate  chapter,  to  bring  to  a close  that  line  of 
reasoning  by  which  we  have  gradually,  as  I hope,  strengthened 
the  defences  around  the  love  of  mystery,  which  distinguishes 
our  modern  art ; and  to  show,  on  final  and  conclusive  authority, 
what  noble  things  these  clouds  are,  and  with  what  feeling  it 
seems  to  be  intended  by  their  Creator  that  we  should  contem- 
plate them. 

2.  The  account  given  of  the  stages  of  creation  in  the  first 
chapter  of  Genesis  is  in  every  respect  clear  and  intelligible  to 
the  simplest  reader,  except  in  the  statement  of  the  work  of  the 
second  day.  I suppose  that  this  statement  is  passed  over  by 
careless  readers  as  a sublime  mystery  which  was  not  intended 
to  be  understood.  But  there  is  no  mystery  in  any  other  part 
of  the  chapter,  and  it  seems  to  me  unjust  to  conclude  that  any 
was  intended  here. 

1 


2 


CCELI  ENA  RR  A NT. 


And  the  passa.j;e  ought  to  be  peculiarly  interesting  to  us,  as 
being  the  first  in  the  Bible  in  which  the  heavens  are  named, 
and  the  only  one  in  which  the  word  Heaven,’’  all  important 
as  that  v:ord  is  to  our  understanding  of  the  most  precious  prom- 
ises of  Scripture,  receives  a definite  explanation. 

Let  us,  therefore,  see  whether  by  a careful  comparison  of 
the  verse  with  other  passages  in  which  the  word  occurs,  we 
may  not  be  able  to  arrive  at  as  clear  an  understanding  of  this 
portion  of  the  chapter  as  of  the  rest. 

3.  In  the  first  place  the  English  word  Firmament”  itself 
is  useless,  because  we  never  employ  it  but  as  a synonym  of 
heaven  ; it  conveys  no  other  distinct  idea  to  us  ; and  the  verse, 
though  from  our  familiarity  with  it  we  imagine  that  it  pos- 
sesses meaning,  has  in  reality  no  more  point  or  value  than  if 
it  were  written,  ‘^God  said.  Let  there  be  a something  in  the 
midst  of  the  waters,  and  God  called  the  something  Heaven.” 

But  the  marginal  reading,  Expansion,”  has  definite  value ; 
and  the  statement  that  God  said.  Let  there  be  an  expansion 
in  the  midsGof  the  waters,  and  God  called  the  expansion 
Heaven,”  has  an  apprehensible  meaning. 

4.  Accepting  this  expression  as  the  one  intenjled,  we  have 
next  to  ask  what  expansion  there  is  between  two  waters,  de- 
scribable  by  the  term  Heaven.  Milton  adopts  the  term‘d  ex- 
panse””^*; but  he  understands  it  of  the  v/hole  volume  of  the 
air  which  surrounds  the  earth.  Whereas,  so  far  as  we  can  tell, 
there  is  no  water  beyond  the  air,  in  the  fields  of  space ; and 
the  whole  expression  of  division  of  waters  from  waters  is  thus 
rendered  valueless. 

5.  Now,  with  respect  to  this  whole  chapter,  we  must  re- 
member always  that  it  is  intended  for  the  instruction  of  all 
mankind,  not  for  the  learned  reader  only ; and  that,  therefore. 


* “ God  made 

The  firmament,  expanse  of  liquid,  pure. 
Transparent,  elemental  air,  diffused 
In  circuit  to  the  uttermost  convex 
Of  this  great  round/’ 


Paradise  Lostj  Book  YU. 


THE  EIRMAMEKT. 


3 


the  most  simple  and  natural  interpretation  is  the  likeliest  in 
general  to  be  the  true  one.  An  unscientific  reader  knows  lit- 
tle about  the  manner  in  which  the  volume  of  the  atmosphere 
surrounds  the  earth  ; but  I imagine  that  he  could  hardly  glance 
at  the  sky  when  rain  was  falling  in  the  distance,  and  see  the 
level  line  of  the  bases  of  the  clouds  from  which  the  shower 
descended,  without  being  able  to  attach  an  instant  and  easy 
meaning  to  the  words  expansion  in  the  midst  of  the  waters.” 
And,  if  having  once  seized  this  idea,  he  proceeded  to  examine 
it  more  accurately,  he  would  perceive  at  once,  if  he  had  ever 
noticed  anyihmg  of  the  nature  of  clouds,  that  the  level  line  of 
their  bases  did  indeed  most  severely  and  stringently  divide 
waters  from  waters,”  that  is  to  say,  divide  water  in  its  col- 
lective and  tangible  state,  from  water  in  its  divided  and  aerial 
state ; or  the  waters  which  fall  and  flow^  from  those  which 
rise  float.  Next,  if  we  try  this  interpretation  in  the  theo- 
logical sense  of  the  word  Heaven.^  and  examine  whether  the 
clouds  are  spoken  of  as  God’s  dwelling-place,  we  find  God 
going  before  the  Israelites  in  a pillar  of  cloud  ; "revealing  Him- 
self in  a cloud  on  Sinai ; appearing  in  a cloud  on  the  mercy 
seat ; filling  the  Temple  of  Solomon  with  the  cloud  when  its 
dedication  is  accepted ; appearing  in  a great  cloud  to  Ezekiel ; 
ascending  into  a cloud  before  the  eyes  of  the  disciples  on 
Mount  Olivet,  and  in  like  manner  returning  to  Judgment. 
Behold  He  cometh  with  clouds,  and  every  eye  shall  see  Him.” 
Then  shall  they  see  the  Son  of  Man  coming  in  the  clouds  of 
heaven,  with  power  and  great  glory.”  * While  farther,  the 
clouds”  and  heavens”  are  used  as  interchangeable  words  in 
those  Psalms  which  most  distinctly  set  forth  the  power  of  God  : 

He  bowed  the  heavens  also,  and  came  dowm  ; He  made  dark- 
ness pavilions  round  about  Him,  dark  waters,  and  thick  clouds 
of  the  skies.”  And  again,  ^^Thy  mercy,  O Lord,  is  in  the 
heavens,  and  Thy  faithfulness  reacheth  unto  the  clouds.” 

* The  reader  may  refer  to  the  following  texts,  whieh  it  is  needless  to 
quote : — Exod.  xiii.  21,  xvi.  10,  xix.  9,  xxiv.  16,  xxxiv.  5 ; Levit.  xvi.  2 ; 
Num.  X.  34  ; Judges  v.  4 ; 1 Kings  viii.  10  ; Ezek.  i.  4 ; Dan.  vii.  13 ; Matt, 
xxiv.  30  ; 1 Thess.  iv.  17 ; Kev.  i.  7, 


4 


CCELI  EN^ARIiAOT. 


And  again  : ^^His  excellency  is  over  Israel,  and  His  strength 
is  in  the  clouds.”  Again : The  clouds  poured  oiit  water,  ^ 
the  skies  sent  out  a sound,  the  voice  of  Thy  thunder  was  in 
the  heaven.”  Again  : Clouds  and  darkness  are  round  about 
Him,  righteousness  and  judgment  are  the  habitation  of  His 
throne;  the  heavens  declare  His  righteousness,  and  all  the 
people  see  His  glory.” 

6.  In  all  these  passages  the  meaning  is  unmistakable,  if  they 
possess  definite  meaning  at  all.  We  are  too  apt  to  take  them 
merely  for  sublime  and  vague  imagery,  and  therefore  gradu- 
ally to  lose  the  apprehension  of  their  life  and  pov/er.  The  ex- 
pression, He  bowed  the  heavens,”  for  instance,  is,  I suppose, 
received  by  most  readers  as  a m.agnificent  hyperbole,  having 
reference  to  some  peculiar  and  fearful  manifestation  of  God’s 
power  to  the  writer  of  the  Psalm  in  which  the  words  occur. 
But  the  expression  either  has  plain  meaning,  or  it  has  no 
meaning.  Understand  by  the  term  “ Heavens”  the  compass 
of  infinite  space  around  the  earth,  and  the  expression,  bowed 
the  Heavens,”  however  sublime,  is  wholly  without  meaning; 
infinite  space  cannot  be  bent  or  bowled.  But  understand  by 
the  Heavens”  the  veil  of  clouds  above  the  earth,  and  the 
expression  is  neither  hyperbolical  nor  obscure ; it  is  pure, 
plain,  and  accurate  truth,  and  it  describes  God,  not  as  reveal- 
ing Himself  in  any  peculiar  way  to  David,  but  doing  what 
He  is  still  doing  before  our  own  eyes  day  by  day.  By  ac- 
cepting the  words  in  their  simjfie  sense,  we  are  thus  led  to 
apprehend  the  immediate  presence  of  the  Deity,  and  His  pur- 
pose of  manifesting  Himself  as  near  us  whenever  the  storm- 
cloud  stoops  upon  its  course ; while  by  our  vague  and  inac- 
curate acceptance  of  the  words  we  remove  tlje  idea  of  His 
presence  far  from  us,  into  a region  which  we  can  neither  see 
nor  know ; and  gradually,  from  the  close  realization  of  a liv- 
ing God  who  maketh  the  clouds  His  chariot,”  we  refine  and 
explain  ourselves  into  dim  and  distant  suspicion  of  an  inac- 
tive God,  inhabiting  inconceivable  places,  and  fading  into  the 
multitudinous  formalisms  of  the  laws  of  ISTature. 

7.  All  errors  of  this  kind — and  in  the  present  day  we  are 


THE  FIilMAME2NT. 


6 


in  constant  and  grievous  danger  of  falling  into  them — arise 
from  the  originally  mistaken  idea  that  man  can,  by  search 
ing,  find  out  God — find  out  the  Almighty  to  perfection  that 
is  to  say,  by  help  of  courses  of  reasoning  and  accumulations  of 
science,  apprehend  the  nature  of  the  Deity  in  a more  exalted 
and  more  accurate  manner  than  in  a state  of  comparative 
ignorance  ; whereas  it  is  clearly  necessary,  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end  of  time,  that  God’s  way  of  revealing  Himself  to 
His  creatures  should  be  a simple  way,  which  all  those  crea- 
tures may  understand.  Whether  taught  or  untaught,  whether 
of  mean  capacity  or  enlarged,  it  is  necessary  that  communion 
with  their  Creator  should  be  possible  to  all ; and  the  admis- 
sion to  such  communion  must  be  rested,  not  on  their  having  a 
knowledge  of  astronomy,  but  on  their  having  a human  soul. 
In  order  to  render  this  communion  possible,  tlie  Deity  has 
stooped  from  His  throne,  and  has  not  only,  in  the  person  of 
the  Son,  taken  upon  Him  the  veil  of  our  human  but,  in 
the  person  of  the  Father,  taken  upon  Him  the  veil  of  our 
human  thoughts^  and  permitted  us^  by  His  own  spoken  au- 
thority, to  conceive  Him  simply  and  clearly  as  a loving 
Father  and  Friend; — a being  to  be  walked  with  and  reasoned 
with  ; to  be  moved  by  our  entreaties,  angered  by  our  rebel- 
lion, alienated  by  our  coldness,  pleased  by  our  love,  and 
glorified  by  our  labour ; and  finally,  to  be  beheld  in  imme- 
diate and  active  presence  in  all  the  powers  and  changes  of 
creation. 

This  conception  of  God,  which  is  the  child’s,  is  evidently 
the  only  one  which  can  be  universal,  and  therefore  the  only 
one  which  for  us  can  be  true.  The  moment  that,  in  our 
nride  of  heart,  we  refuse  to  accept  the  condescension  of  the 
Almighty,  and  desire  Him,  instead  of  stooping  to  hold  our 
hands,  to  rise  up  before  us  into  His  glory, — vre,  hoping  that 
by  standing  on  a grain  of  dust  or  two  of  human  knowledge 
higher  than  our  fellows,  we  may  behold  the  Creator  as  He 
rises — God  takes  us  at  our  word ; He  rises,  into  His  own  in- 
visible and  inconceivable  Majesty  ; He  goes  forth  upon  the 
ways  which  are  not  our  ways,  and  retires  into  the  thoughts 


6 


CCELI  ENAHIIANT. 


which  are  not  our  thoughts  ; and  we  are  left  alone.  And 
presently  we  say  in  onr  vain  hearts,  There  is  no  God.’’ 

8.  I wonld  desire,  therefore,  to  receive  God’s  account  of 
His  own  creation  as  under  the  ordinary  limits  of  human 
knowledge  and  imagination  it  would  be  received  by  a simple- 
minded  man;  and  finding  that  the  ^‘heavens  and  the  eartli  ’ 
are  spoken  of  always  as  having  something  like  eqnal  relation 
to  each  other,  thus  the  heavens  and  the  earth  were  finished, 
and  all  the  host  of  them,”)  I reject  at  once  all  idea  of  the  term 
Heavens”  being  intended  to  signify  the  infinity  of  space  in- 
habited by  countless  sand,  with  which  space  though  we  meas- 
ured not  the  earth  only,  but  the  sun  itself,  with  all  the  solar 
system,  no  relation  of  equality  or  comparison  could  be  in- 
ferred. But  I suppose  the  heavens  to  mean  that  part  of  the 
creation  which  holds  equal  companionship  with  our  globe;  I 
understand  the  rolling  of  those  heavens  together  as  a scroll  ” 
to  be  an  equal  and  relative  destruction  with  the  melting  of 
the  elements  in  fervent  heat ;”  * and  I understand  the  making 
the  firmament  to  signify  that,  so  far  as  man  is  concerned, 
most  magnificent  ordinance  of  the  clouds,^ — the  ordinance, 
that  as  the  great  plain  of  waters  was  formed  on  the  face  of 
the  earth,  so  also  a plain  of  waters  should  be  stretched  along 
the  height  of  air,  and  the  face  of  the  cloud  answer  the  face  of 


* Compare  also  Job  xxxvi.  29,  ‘'The  spreading  of  the  clouds,  and  the 
noise  of  His  tabernacle” \ and  xxxviii.  33,  “ Knowest  thou  the  ordinances 
of  heaven?  canst  thou  set  the  dominion  thereof  in  the  earth?  canst  thou  lift 
up  thy  voice  to  the  clouds?” 

Observe  that  in  the  passage  of  Addison’s  well-known  hymn — 

“ The  spacious  firmament  on  high. 

With  all  the  blue,  ethereal  sky. 

And  spangled  heavens,  a shining  frame. 

Their  great  Original  proclaim” — 

the  writer  has  clearly  the  true  distinctions  in  his  mind  ; he  does  not  use  his 
words,  as  we  too  often  accept  them,  in  vain  tautology.  By  the  spacious 
firmament  he  means  the  clouds,  using  the  word  “ spacious”  to  mark  the 
true  meaning  of  the  Hebrew  term  : the  blue  ethereal  sky  is  the  real  air  or 
ether,  blue  above  the  clouds  ; the  heavens  are  the  starry  space,  for  which 
he  uses  this  word,  less  accurately  indeed  than  the  others,  but  as  the  only  one 
available  for  his  meaning. 


THE  FIRMAMENT. 


7 


the  ocean  ; and  this  upper  and  heavenly  plain  should  bo  of 
waters,  as  it  were,  glorified  in  their  nature,  no  longer  quench- 
ing the  lire,  but  now  bearing  lire  in  their  own  bosoms ; no 
longer  murmuring  only  when  the  winds  raise  them  or  rocks 
divide,  but  answering  each  other  with  their  own  voices  from 
pole  to  pole ; no  longer  restrained  by  established  shores,  and 
guided  through  unchanging  channels,  but  going  forth  at  their 
pleasure  like  the  armies  of  the  angels,  and  choosing  their  en- 
campments upon  the  heights  of  the  hills;  no  longer  hurried 
downwards  for  ever,  moving  but  to  fall,  nor  lost  in  the  light- 
less accumulation  of  the  abyss,  but  covering  the  east  and  west 
with  the  waving  of  their  wings,  and  robing  the  gloom  of  the 
farther  infinite  with  a vesture  of  divers  colours,  of  which  the 
threads  are  purple  and  scarlet,  and  the  embroideries  flame. 

9.  This,  I believe,  is  the  ordinance  of  the  firmament;  and 
it  seems  to  me  that  in  the  midst  of  the  material  nearness  of 
these  heavens  God  means  us  to  acknowledge  His  own  imme- 
diate presence  as  visiting,  judging,  and  blessing  us.  ^^The 
earth  shook,  the  heavens  also  dropped,  at  the  presence  of 
God.”  ^^He  doth  set  His  bow  in  the  cloud,”  and  thus  re- 
news, in  the  sound  of  every  drooping  swathe  of  rain.  His 
promises  of  everlasting  love.  “ In  them  hath  He  set  a taber- 
nacle for  the  sun,”  whose  burning  ball,  which,  without  the 
firmament,  would  be  seen  but  as  an  intolerable  and  scorching 
circle  in  the  blackness  of  vacuity,  is  by  that  firmament  sur- 
rounded with  gorgeous  service,  and  tempered  by  mediatorial 
ministries;  by  the  firmament  of  clouds  the  golden  pavement 
is  spread  for  his  chariot  wheels  at  morning;  by  the  firmament 
of  clouds  the  temple  is  built  for  his  presence  to  fill  with  light 
at  noon  ; by  the  firmament  of  clouds  the  purple  veil  is  closed 
at  evening  round  the  sanctuary  of  his  rest ; by  the  mists  of  the 
firmament  his  implacable  light  is  divided,  and  its  separated 
fierceness  appeased  into  the  soft  blue  that  fills  the  depth  of 
distance  with  its  bloom,  and  the  flush  with  which  the  moun- 
tains burn  as  they  drink  tlie  overflowing  of  the  dayspring. 
And  in  this  tabernacling  of  the  unendurable  sun  with  men, 
through  the  sliadmvs  of  the  firmament,  God  would  seem  to 


8 


CCELI  EN^ARRANT. 


set  fortli  the  stooping  of  His  own  majesty  to  men,  upon  the 
throne  of  the  firmament.  As  the  Creator  of  all  the  worlds, 
and  the  Inhabitor  of  eternity,  we  cannot  behold  Him  ; but  as 
the  Judge  of  the  earth  and  the  Preserver  of  men,  those 
heavens  are  indeed  His  dwelling-place.  Swear  not,  neither 
by  heaven,  for  it  is  God’s  throne  ; nor  by  the  earth,  for  it  is 
His  footstool.”  And  all  those  passings  to  and  fro  of  fruitful 
shower  and  grateful  shade,  and  all  those  visions  of  silver 
palaces  built  about  the  horizon,  and  voices  of  moaning  winds 
and  threatening  thunders,  and  glories  of  coloured  robe  and 
cloven  ray,  are  but  to  deepen  in  our  hearts  the  acceptance, 
and  distinctness,  and  dearness  of  the  simple  words,  Our 
Father,  which  art  in  heaven*” 


THE  CLUUE-BALANCIEGS. 


9 


CHAPTEE  II. 

THE  CLOUD-BALAN(^NGS. 

^ Modern  Painters,'  Yol.  V.,  Part  VITi^  Gkap,  L 

1.  We  have  seen  that  when  the  earth  had  to  T)e  prepared 
for  the  habitation  of  man,  a veil,  as  it  were,  of  intermediate 
being  was  spread  between  liim  and  its  darkness,  in  which 
were  joined,  in  a subdued  measure,  the  stability  and  insensi- 
bility of  the  earth,  and  the  passion  and  perishing  of  mankind. 

But  the  heavens,  also,  had  to  be  prepared  for  his  habita- 
tion. 

Between  their  burning  light, — their  deep  vacuity,  and  man, 
as  between  the  earth’s  gloom  of  iron  substance,  and  man,  a 
veil  had  to  be  spread  of  intermediate  being  ; — which  should 
appease  the  unendurable  glory  to  the  level  of  human  feeble- 
ness, and  sign  the  changeless  motion  of  the  heavens  with  a 
semblance  of  human  vicissitude. 

Between  the  earth  and  man  arose  the  leaf.  Between  the 
heaven  and  man  came  the  cloud.  His  life  being  partly  as  the 
falling  leaf,  and  partly  as  the  flying  vapour. 

2.  Has  the  reader  any  distinct  idea  of  what  clouds  are  ? 
We  had  some  talk  about  them  long  ago,  and  perhaps  thought 
their  nature,  though  at  that  time  not  clear  to  us,  would  be 
easily  enough  understandable  when  we  put  ourselves  seriously 
to  make  it  out.  Shall  we  begin  with  one  or  two  easiest 
questions? 

That  mist  which  lies  in  the  morning  so  softly  in  the  valley, 
level  and  white,  through  which  the  tops  of  the  trees  rise  as  if 
through  an  inundation — why  is  it  so  heavy  ? and  why  does  it 
lie  so  low,  being  yet  so  thin  and  frail  that  it  will  melt  away 
utterly  into  splendour  of  morning,  when  the  sun  has  shone  on 
it  but  a few  moments  more?  Those  colossal  pyramids,  huge 


10 


CCELI  p:KARRATSrT, 


and  firm,  with  outlines  as  of  rocks,  and  strength  to  bear  the 
beating  of  the  high  sun  full  on  their  fiery  tlanks— wliy  are 
they  so  light, — their  bases  high  over  our  heads,  high  over  the 
heads  of  Alps?  why  will  these  melt  away,  not  as  the  sun 
rises^  but  as  he  descends^  and  leave  the  stars  of  twilight  clear, 
while  the  valley  vapour  gains  again  upon  the  earth  like  a 
shroud  ? 

Or  that  ghost  of  a cloud,  which  steals  by  yonder  clump  of 
pines  : nay,  which  does  not  steal  by  them,  but  haunts  them, 
wreathing  yet  round  them,  and  yet — and  yet,  slowly  : now 
falling  in  a fair  waved  line  like  a woman’s  veil ; now  fading, 
now  gone  : we  look  away  for  an  instant,  and  look  back,  and  it 
is  again  there.  What  has  it  to  do  with  that  clump  of  pines, 
that  it  broods  by  them  and  weaves  itself  among  their  branches, 
to  and  fro  ? Has  it  hidden  a cloudy  treasure  among  the  moss 
at  their  roots,  which  it  watches  thus  ? Or  has  some  strong 
enchanter  charmed  it  into  fond  returning,  or  bound  it  fast 
within  those  bars  of  bough?  And  yonder  filmy  crescent, bent 
like  an  archer’s  bow  above  the  snowy  summit,  the  highest  of 
all  the  hill, — that  white  arch  which  never  forms  but  over  the 
supreme  crest, — how  is  it  stayed  there,  repelled  apparently 
from  the  snow — nowhere  touching  it,  the  clear  sky  seen  be- 
tween it  and  the  mountain  edge,  yet  never  leaving  it — poised 
as  a white  bird  hovers  over  its  nest  ? 

Or  those  war-clouds  that  gather  on  the  horizon,  dragon- 
crested,  tongued  with  fire  ; — how  is  their  barbed  strength 
bridled  ? what  bits  are  these  they  are  champing  with  their 
vaporous  lips  ; flinging  off  flakes  of  black  foam  ? Leagued 
leviathans  of  the  Sea  of  Heaven,  out  of  their  nostrils  goeth 
smoke,  and  their  eyes  are  like  the  eyelids  of  the  morning  ; — 
the  sword  of  him  that  layeth  at  them  cannot  hold  the  spear, 
the  dart,  nor  the  habergeon.  Where  ride  the  captains  of 
their  armies  ? Where  are  set  the  measures  of  their  march  ? 
Fierce  murmurers,  answering  each  other  from  morning  until 
evening — what  rebuke  is  this  which  has  awed  them  into 
peace?  what  hand  has  reined  them  back  by  the  way  by  which 
they  came  ? 


THE  CLOUD-BALANOINGS. 


11 


3.  I know  not  if  the  reader  will  think  at  first  that  questions 
like  these  are  easily  answered.  So  far  from  it,  I rather  be- 
lieve th^t  some  of  the  mysteries  of  tlie  clouds  never  will  be 
understood  by  us  at  all.  “ Knowest  thou  the  balancings  of 
the  clouds  Is  the  answer  ever  to  be  one  of  pride  ? The 
wondrous  works  of  Him  wliicb  perfect  in  knowledge  Is 
OUT  knowledge  ever  to  be  so  ? 

It  is  one  of  the  most  discouraging  consequences  of  the 
varied  character  of  this  work  of  mine,  that  I am  wholly  unable 
to  take  note  of  the  advance  of  modern  science.  What  lias 
conclusively  been  discovered  or  observed  about  clouds,  I know 
not ; but  by  the  chance  inquiry  possible  to  me  I find  no  book 
which  fairly  states  the  difficulties  of  accounting  for  even  the 
ordinary  aspects  of  the  sky.  I shall,  therefore,  be  able  in  this 
section  to  do  little  more  than  suggest  inquiries  to  the  reader, 
putting  the  subject  in  a clear  form  for  him.  All  men  ac- 
customed to  investigation  will  confirm  me  in  saying  that  it  is 
a great  step  when  we  are  personally  quite  certain  what  we  do 
not  know. 

4.  First,  then,  I believe  we  do  not  know  what  makes  clouds 
float.  Clouds  are  water,  in  some  fine  form  or  another  ; but 
water  is  heavier  than  air,  and  the  finest  form  you  can  give  a 
heavy  thing  will  not  make  it  float  in  a light  thing. On  it, 
yes  ; as  a boat  : but  in  it,  no.  Clouds  are  not  boats,  nor  boat- 
shaped, and  they  float  in  the  air,  not  on  the  top  of  it.  Nay, 
but  though  unlike  boats,  may  they  not  be  like  feathers  ? If 
out  of  quill  substance  there  may  be  constructed  eider-down, 
and  out  of  vegetable  tissue,  thistle-down,  both  buoyant  enough 
for  a time,  surely  of  water-tissue  may  . be  constructed  also 
water-down,  which  will  be  buoyant  enough  for  all  cloud y^pur- 
poses.’’  T^ot  so.  Throw  out  your  eider  plumage  in  a calm 
day,  and  it  will  all  come  settling  to  the  ground  : slowly 

* [Compare  the  old  note  to  § 6 : hut  I had  not,  When  I wrote  it,  enough 
reflected  on  the  horrible  buoyancy  of  smoke,  nor  did  I know  over  what 
spaces  volcanic  ashes  were  diffusible.  Will  any  of  my  scientific  friends  now 
state  foi-  me  the  approximate  weight  and  bulk  of  a particle  of  dust  of  any 
solid  substance  which  would  be  buoyant  in  air  of  given  density  ?J 


12 


CCELI  EN ARRANT. 


indeed,  to  aspect;  but  practically  so  fast  that  all  our  finest 
clouds  would  be  here  in  a heap  about  our  ears  in  an  hour  or 
two,  if  they  were  only  made  of  wafer  feathers.  But  may 
they  not  be  quill  feathers,  and  have  air  inside  them  ? May 
not  all  their  particles  be  minute  little  balloons?” 

A balloon  only  floats  when  the  air  inside  it  is  either  specifi- 
cally, or  by  heating,  lighter  than  the  air  it  floats  in.  If  the 
cl  Olid -feathers  had  warm  air  inside  their  quills,  a cloud  would 
be  warmer  than  the  air  about  it,  which  it  is  not  (I  believe). 
And  if  the  cloud-feathers  had  hydrogen  inside  their  quills,  a 
cloud  would  be  unwholesome  for  breathing,  which  it  is  not — 
at  least  so  it  seems  to  me. 

But  may  they  not  have  nothing  inside  their  quills  ?” 
Then  they  would  rise,  as  bubbles  do  through  water,  just  as 
certainly  as,  if  they  were  solid  feathers,  they  would  fall.  All 
our  clouds  would  go  up  to  the  top  of  the  air,  and  swim  in 
eddies  of  cloud-foam. 

But  is  not  that  just  what  they  do  ?”  No.  They  float  at  dif- 
ferent heights,  and  with  definite  forms,  in  the  body  of  the  air 
itself.  If  they  rose  like  foam,  the  sky  on  a cloudy  day  would 
look  like  a very  large  flat  glass  of  champagne  seen  from  below, 
with  a stream  of  bubbles  (or  clouds)  going  up  as  fast  as  they 
could  to  a flat  foam-ceiling. 

But  may  they  not  be  just  so  nicely  mixed  out  of  some- 
thing and  nothing,  as  to  float  where  they  are  wanted  ?” 

Yes : that  is  just  what  they  not  only  may,  but  must  be : only 
this  way  of  mixing  something  and  nothing  is  the  very  thing 
I w^ant  to  explain  or  have  explained,  and  cannot  do  it,  nor  get 
it  done. 

5.  Except  thus  far.  It  is  conceivable  that  minute  hollow 
spherical  globules  might  be  formed  of  water,  in  which  the 
enclosed  vacuity  just  balanced  the  weight  of  the  enclosing 
w^ater,  and  that  the  arched  sphere  formed  by  the  watery  film 
was  strong  enough  to  prevent  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere 
from  breaking  it  in.  Such  a globule  would  float  like  a balloon 
at  the  height  in  the  atmosphere  where  the  equipoise  between 
the  vacuum  it  enclosed,  and  its  own  excess  of  weight  above 


THE  CLOUD-BALANCINGS. 


13 


tliat  of  the  air,  was  exact.  It  would,  probably,  approach  its 
coiupanion  globules  by  reciprocal  attraction,  and  form  aggre- 
gations which  might  be  visible. 

This  is,  I believe,  the  view  usually  taken  by  meteorologists. 
I state  it  as  a possibility,  to  be  taken  into  account  in  examin- 
ing the  question — a possibility  confirmed  by  the  scriptural 
words  which  I have  taken  for  the  title  of  this  chapter. 

6.  Nevertheless,  I state  it  as  a possibility  only,  not  seeing 
how  any  known  operation  of  physical  law  could  explain  the 
formation  of  such  molecules.  This,  however,  is  not  the  only 
difficulty.  Whatever  shape  the  water  is  thrown  into,  it  seems 
at  first  improbable  that  it  should  lose  its  property  of  wetness. 
Minute  division  of  rain,  as  in  “ Scotch  mist,’’  makes  it  capable 
of  fioating  farther,*  or  fioating  up  and  down  a little,  just  as 
dust  will  float,  though  pebbles  will  not ; or  gold-leaf,  though 
a sovereign  will  not ; but  minutely  divided  rain  wets  as  much 
as  any  other  kind,  whereas  a cloud,  partially  always,  sometimes 
entirely,  loses  its  power  of  moistening.  Some  low  clouds  look, 

* The  buoyancy  of  solid  bodies  of  a given  specific  gravity,  in  a given 
fluid,  depends,  first  on  their  size,  then  on  their  forms. 

First,  on  their  size  ; that  is  to  say,  on  the  proportion  of  the  magnitude  of 
the  object  (irrespective  of  the  distribution  of  its-  particles)  to  the  magnitude 
of  the  particles  of  the  air. 

Thus,  a grain  of  sand  is  buoyant  in  wind,  but  a large  stone  is  not ; and 
pebbles  and  sand  are  buoyant  in  water  in  proportion  to  tbeir  smallness,  fine 
dust  taking  long  to  sink,  while  a large  stone  sinks  at  once.  Thus,  we  see 
that  water  may  be  arranged  in  drops  of  any  magnitude,  from  the  largest 
rain-drop,  about  the  size  of  a large  pea,  to  an  atom  so  small  as  not  to  be 
separately  visible,  the  smallest  rain  passing  gradually  into  mist.  Of  these 
drops  of  different  sizes  (supposing  the  strength  of  the  wind  the  same),  the 
largest  fall  fastest,  the  smaller  drops  are  more  buoyant,  and  the  small  misty' 
rain  floats  about  like  a cloud,  as  often  up  as  down,  so  that  an  umbrella  is 
useless  in  it ; though  in  a heavy  thunderstorm,  if  there  is  no  wind,  one  may 
stand  gathered  up  under  an  umbrella  without  a drop  touching  the  feet. 

Secondly,  buoyancy  depends  on  the  amount  of  surface  which  a given 
weight  of  the  substance  exposes  to  the  resistance  of  the  substance  it  floats 
in.  Thus,  gold-leaf  is  in  a high  degree  buoyant,  while  the  same  quantity 
of  gold  in  a compact  grain  would  fall  like  a shot ; and  a feather  is  buoyant, 
though  the  same  quantity  of  animal  matter  in  a compact  form  would  l:c'  as 
heavy  as  a little  stone.  A slate  blows  far  from  a house-top,  while  a brick 
falls  vertically,  or  nearly  so. 


14 


CCEI.I  Eis^AKRAN'J'. 


when  you  are  in  them,  as  if  tliey  were  made  of  specks  of  dust, 
like  short  hairs  ; and  these  clouds  are  entirely  dry.  And  also 
many  clouds  will  wet  some  substances,  but  not  others.  So 
that  we  must  grant  farther,  if  we  are  to  be  happy  in  our 
tlieory,  that  the  spherical  molecules  are  held  together  by  an 
attraction  which  prevents  their  adhering  to  any  foreign  body, 
or  perhaps  ceases  only  under  some  peculiar  electric  conditions. 

7.  The  question  remains,  even  supposing  their  production 
accounted  for, — What  intermediate  states  of  water  may  exist 
between  these  spherical  hollow  molecules  and  pure  vapour? 

Has  the  reader  ever  considered  the  relations  of  commonest 
forms  of  volatile  substance?  The  invisible  particles  v/hich 
cause  the  scent  of  a rose-leaf,  how  minute,  how  multitudinous, 
passing  richly  away  into  the  air  continually  ! The  visible 
cloud  of  frankincense — why  visible?  Is  it  in  consequence  of 
the  greater  quantity,  or  larger  size  of  the  particles,  and  how 
does  the  heat  act  in  throwing  them  off  in  this  quantity,  or  of 
this  size  ? 

Ask  the  same  questions  respecting  water.  It  dries,  that  is, 
becomes  volatile,  invisibly,  at  (any  ?)  temperature.  Snow  dries, 
as  water  docs.  Under  increase  of  heat,  it  volatilizes  faster,  so 
as  to  become  dimly  visible  in  large  mass,  as  a heat-haze.  It 
reaches  boiling  point,  then  becomes  entirely  visible.  But 
compress  it,  so  that  no  air  shall  get  between  the  watery 
particles — it  is  invisible  again.  At  the  first  issuing  from  the 
steam-pipe  the  steam  is  transparent ; but  opaque,  or  visible,  as 
it  diffuses  itself.  The  water  is  indeed  closer,  because  cooler, 
in  that  diffusion  ; but  more  air  is  between  its  particles.  Then 
this  very  question  of  visibility  is  an  endless  one,  w^avering 
between  form  of  substance  and  action  of  light.  The  clearest 
(or  least  visible)  stream  becomes  brightly  opaque  by  more 
minute  division  in  its  foam,  and  the  clearest  dew  in  hoar-frost. 
Dust,  unperceived  in  shade,  becomes  constantly  visible  in 
sunbeam  ; and  w^atery  vapour  in  the  atmosphere,  which  is 
itself  opaque,  when  there  is  promise  of  fine  weather,  becomes 
exquisitely  transparent;  and  (questionably)  blue,  when  it  is 
going  to  rain. 


THE  CLOUD  BALAN^CIHGS. 


15 


8.  Questionably  blue  : for  besides  knowing  very  little  about 
water,  we  know  wbat,  except  by  courtesy,  must,  I think,  be 
called  Notliing— about  air.  Is  it  the  watery  vapour,  or  the 
air  itself,  which  is  blue  ? Are  neither  blue,  but  only  white, 
producing  blue  when  seen  over  dark  spaces  ? If  either  blue, 
or  white,  why,  when  crimson  is  their  commanded  dress,  are 
the  most  distant  clouds  crimsonest  ? Clouds  close  to  us  may 
be  blue,  but  far  off,  golden, — a strange  result,  if  the  air  is  blue. 
And  again,  if  blue,  why  are  rays  that  come  through  large 
spaces  of  it  red ; and  that  Alp,  or  anything  else  that  catches 
far-away  light,  why  coloured  red,  at  dawn  and  sunset?  No 
one  knows,  I believe.  It  is  true  that  many  substances,  as 
opal,  are  blue,  or  green,  by  reflected  light,  yellow  by  trans- 
mitted ; but  air,  if  blue  at  all,  is  blue  always  by  transmitted 
light.  I hear  of  a wonderful  solution  of  nettles,  or  other 
unlovely  herb,  which  is  green  when  shallow, — red  when  deep. 
Perhaps  some  day,  as  the  motion  of  the  heavenly  bodies  by 
help  of  an  apple,  their  light  by  help  of  a nettle,  may  be  ex- 
plained to  mankind. 

9.  But  farther : these  questions  of  volatility,  and  visibility, 
and  hue,  are  all  complicated  with  those  of  shape.  How  is  a 
cloud  outlined  ? Granted  whatever  you  choose  to  ask,  con- 
cerning its  material,  or  its  aspect,  its  loftiness  and  luminous- 
ness,— how  of  its  limitation?  What  hews  it  into  a heap,  or 
spins  it  into  a web?  Cold  is  usually  shapeless,  I suppose,  ex 
tending  over  large  spaces  equally,  or  with  gradual  diminution. 
You  cannot  have,  in  the  open  air,  angles,  and  wedges,  and 
coils,  and  cliffs  of  cold.  Yet  the  vapour  stops  suddenly,  sharp 
and  steep  as  a rock,  or  thrusts  itself  across  the  gates  of  heaven 
in  likeness  of  a brazen  bar ; or  braids  itself  in  and  out,  and 
across  and  across,  like  a tissue  of  tapestry  ; or  falls  into  ripples, 
like  sand  ; or  into  waving  shreds  and  tongues,  as  Are.  On  what 
anvils  and  wheels  is  the  vapour  pointed,  twisted,  hammered, 
whirled,  as  the  potter’s  clay  ? By  what  hands  is  the  incense 
of  tlie  sea  built  up  into  domes  of  marble  ? 

And,  lastly,  all  these  questions  respecting  substance,  and 
aspect,  and  shape,  and  line,  and  division,  are  involved  with 


16 


CCELr  EKARRANT. 


others  as  inscrutable,  concerning  action.  The  curves  in  which 
clonds  move  are  unknowm  ; — nay,  the  very  method  of  their 
motion,  or  apparent  motion,  how  far  it  is  by  change  of  place, 
how  far  by  appeai’ance  in  one  place  and  vanishing  from 
another.  And  these  questions  about  movement  lead  partly 
far  away  into  high  mathematics,  wdiere  I cannot  follow  them, 
and  partly  into  theories  concerning  electricity  and  infinite 
space,  where  I suppose  at  present  no  one  can  follow  them. 

What,  then,  is  the  use  of  asking  the  questions  ? 

For  my  own  part,  I enjoy  the  mystery,  and  perhaps  the 
reader  may.  I think  he  ought.  He  should  not  be  less  grate- 
ful for  summer  rain,  or  see  less  beauty  in  the  clouds  of  morn- 
ing, because  they  come  to  prove  him  with  hard  questions;  to 
which,  perhaps,  if  we  look  close  at  the  heavenly  scroll,’^  w^e 
may  find  also  a syllable  or  twm  of  answer  illuminated  here  and 
there. 


There  is  a beautiful  passage  in  Sartor  Resartus  concerning  this  old 
Hebrew  scroll,  in  its  deeper  meanings,  and  the  child’s  w<atching  it,  though 
long  illegible  for  him,  yet  “with  an  eye  to  the  gilding.”  It  signifies  in  a 
word  or  two  nearly  all  that  is  to  be  said  about  clouds. — (Not  qaite.  J.  li., 
1884.) 


THE  OPENING 


OP 


THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE, 


CONSIDERED  IN  SOME  OF  ITS 
RELATIONS  TO  THE  PROSPECTS  OF  ART. 


BY 

JOHN  RUSKIN,  M.A., 

AUTHOR  OF  “the  STONES  OF  VENICE,”  “THE  SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE,” 

“modern  painters,”  etc. 


NEW  YORK  AND  SAINT  PAUL; 

D.  D.  MERRILL  COMPANY. 


THE  OPENING 


OF 


THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE 


CONSIDERED  IN  SOME  OF  ITS  RELATIONS  TO  THE  PROSPECTS  OF  ART. 


I READ  the  account  in  the  Times  newspaper  of  the  opening 
of  the  Crystal  Palace  at  Sydenham,  as  I ascended  the  hill  be- 
tween Vevay  and  Chatel  St.  Denis,  and  the  thoughts  which  it 
called  up  haunted  me  all  day  long,  as  my  road  wound  among 
the  grassy  slopes  of  the  Simmenthal.  There  was  a strange 
contrast  between  the  image  of  that  mighty  palace,  raised  so 
high  above  the  hills  on  which  it  is  built  as  to  make  them 
seem  little  else  than  a basement  for  its  glittering  stateliness, 
and  those  low  larch  huts,  half  hidden  beneath  their  coverts  of 
forest,  and  scattered  like  gray  stones  along  the  masses  of  far 
away  mountain.  Here,  man  contending  with  the  power  of 
Nature  for  his  existence  ; there,  commanding  them  for  his 
recreation : here  a feeble  folk  nested  among  the  rocks  with 
the  wild  goat  and  the  coney,  and  retaining  the  same  quiet 
thoughts  from  generation  to  generation  ; there,  a great  multi- 
tude triumphing  in  the  splendour  of  immeasurable  habitation, 
and  haughty  with  hope  of  endless  progress  and  irresistible 
power. 

It  is  indeed  impossible  to  limit,  in  imagination,  the  benefi- 
cent results  which  may  follow  from  the  undertaking  thus 
happily  begun.  For  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the  world, 
a national  museum  is  formed  in  which  a whole  nation  is  in- 


2 


THE  OPEKIKG  OF  THE  CKYSTAL  PALACE. 


terested ; formed  on  a scale  which  permits  the  exhibition  of 
monuments  of  art  in  unbroken  symmetry,  and  of  the  produc- 
tions of  nature  in  unthwarted  growth, — formed  under  the 
auspices  of  science  which  can  hardly  err,  and  of  wealth  which 
can  hardly  be  exhausted ; and  placed  in  the  close  neighbour- 
hood of  a metropolis  overflowing  with  a population  weary  of 
labour,  yet  thirsting  for  knowledge,  where  contemplation  may 
be  consistent  with  rest,  and  instruction  with  enjoyment.  It 
is  impossible,  I repeat,  to  estimate  the  influence  of  such  an 
institution  on  the  minds  of  the  working-classes.  How  many 
hours  once  wasted  may  now  be  profitably  dedicated  to  pur- 
suits in  which  interest  was  flrst  awakened  by  some  accidental 
display  in  the  Norwood  palace ; how  many  constitutions,  al- 
most broken,  may  be  restored  by  the  healthy  temptation  into 
the  country  air, — how  many  intellects,  once  dormant,  may  be 
roused  into  activity  within  the  crystal  walls,  and  how  these 
noble  results  may  go  on  multiplying  and  increasing  and  bear- 
ing fruit  seventy  times  sevenfold,  as  the  nation  pursues  its 
career, — are  questions  as  full  of  hope  as  incapable  of  calcula- 
tion. But  with  all  these  grounds  for  hope  there  are  others 
for  despondency,  giving  rise  to  a group  of  melancholy  thoughts, 
of  which  I can  neither  repress  the  importunity  nor  forbear  the 
expression. 

For  three  hundred  years,  the  art  of  architecture  has  been  the 
subject  of  the  most  curious  investigation ; its  principles  have 
been  discussed  with  all  earnestness  and  acuteness ; its  models 
in  all  countries  and  of  all  ages  have  been  examined  with  scru- 
pulous care,  and  imitated  with  unsparing  expenditure.  And 
of  all  this  refinement  of  enquiry, — this  lofty  search  after  the 
ideal, — this  subtlety  of  investigation  and  sumptuousness  of 
practice, — the  great  result,  the  admirable  and  long-expected 
conclusion  is,  that  in  the  centre  of  the  19th  century,  we  sup- 
pose ourselves  to  have  invented  a new  style  of  architecture, 
when  we  have  magnified  a conservatory ! 

In  Mr.  Laing’s  speech,  at  the  opening  of  the  palace,  he  de- 
clares that  an  entirely  novel  order  of  architecture^  producing, 
by  means  of  unrivalled  mechanical  ingenuity,  the  most  man 


THE  OPEKIHG  OF  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE, 


3 


vellons  and  beautiful  effects,  sprang  into  existence  to  provide 
a building.”  * In  these  words,  the  speaker  is  not  merely  giv- 
ing utterance  to  his  own  feelings.  He  is  expressing  the  popu- 
lar view  of  the  facts,  nor  that  a view  merely  popular,  but  one 
which  has  been  encouraged  by  nearly  all  the  professors  of  art 
of  our  time. 

It  is  to  this,  then,  that  our  Doric  and  Palladian  pride  is  at 
last  reduced  ! We  have  vaunted  the  divinity  of  the  Greek 
ideal — we  have  plumed  ourselves  on  the  purity  of  our  Italian 
taste, — we  have  cast  our  whole  souls  into  the  proportions  of 
pillars,  and  the  relations  of  orders — and  behold  the  end  ! Our 
taste,  thus  exalted  and  disciplined,  is  dazzled  by  the  lustre  of 
a few  rows  of  panes  of  glass  ; and  the  first  principles  of  archi- 
tectural sublimity,  so  far  sought,  are  found  all  the  while  to 
have  consisted  merely  in  sparkling  and  in  space. 

Let  it  not  be  thought  that  I would  depreciate  (were  it  pos- 
sible to  depreciate)  the  mechanical  ingenuity  which  has  been 
displayed  in  the  erection  of  the  Crystal  Palace,  or  that  I un- 
derrate the  effect  which  its  vastness  may  continue  to  produce 
on  the  popular  imagination.  But  mechanical  ingenuity  is  not 
the  essence  either  of  painting  or  architecture : and  largeness 
of  dimension  does  not  necessarily  involve  nobleness  of  design. 
There  is  assuredly  as  much  ingenuity  required  to  build  a 
screw  frigate,  or  a tubular  bridge,  as  a hall  of  glass ; — all 
these  are  works  characteristic  of  the  age ; and  all,  in  their 
several  ways,  deserve  our  highest  admiration;  but  not  ad- 
miration of  the  kind  that  is  rendered  to  poetry  or  to  art.  We 
may  cover  the  German  Ocean  with  frigates,  and  bridge  the 
Bristol  Channel  with  iron,  and  roof  the  county  of  Middlesex 
with  crystal,  and  yet  not  possess  one  Milton,  or  Michael  An- 
gelo. 

Well,  it  may  be  replied,  we  need  our  bridges,  and  have 
pleasure  in  our  palaces  ; but  we  do  not  want  Miltons,  nor 
Michael  Angelos. 

Truly,  it  seems  so ; for,  in  the  year  in  which  the  first  Crys- 


*See  the  Times  of  Monday,  June  12th, 


4 


THE  OPEHIHG  OF  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


tal  Palace  was  built,  there  died  among  us  a man  whose  name, 
in  after  ages,  will  stand  with  those  of  the  great  of  all  time. 
Dying,  he  bequeathed  to  the  nation  the  whole  mass  of  his 
most  cherished  works  : and  for  these  three  years,  while  we 
have  been  building  this  colossal  receptacle  for  casts  and  copies 
of  the  art  of  other  nations,  these  works  of  our  own  greatest 
painter  have  been  left  to  decay  in  a dark  room  near  Cavendish 
Square,  under  the  custody  of  an  aged  servant. 

This  is  quite  natural.  But  it  is  also  memorable. 

There  is  another  interesting  fact  connected  with  the  his- 
tory of  the  Crystal  Palace  as  it  bears  on  that  of  the  art  of 
Europe,  namely,  that  in  the  year  1851,  when  all  that  glitter- 
ing roof  was  built,  in  order  to  exhibit  the  petty  arts  of  our 
fashionable  luxury — the  carved  bedsteads  of  Vienna,  and  glued 
toys  of  Switzerland,  and  gay  jewellery  of  France — in  that  very 
year,  I say,  the  greatest  pictures  of  the  Venetian  masters 
were  rotting  at  Venice  in  the  rain,  for  want  of  roof  to  cover 
them,  with  holes  made  by  cannon  shot  through  their  canvas. 

There  is  another  fact,  however,  more  curious  than  either  of 
these,  which  will  hereafter  be  connected  with  the  history  of 
the  palace  now  in  building ; namely,  that  at  the  very  period 
when  Europe  is  congratulated  on  the  invention  of  a new  style 
of  architecture,  because  fourteen  acres  of  ground  have  been 
covered  with  glass,  the  greatest  examples  in  existence  of  true 
and  noble  Christian  architecture  were  being  resolutely  de- 
stroyed ; and  destroyed  by  the  effects  of  the  very  interest 
which  was  slowly  beginning  to  be  excited  by  them. 

Under  the  firm  and  wise  government  of  the  third  ISTapoleon, 
France  has  entered  on  a new  epoch  of  prosperity,  one  of  the 
signs  of  which  is  a zealous  care  for  the  preservation  of  her 
noble  public  buildings.  Under  the  influence  of  this  healthy 
impulse,  repairs  of  the  most  extensive  kind  are  at  this 
moment  proceeding,  on  the  cathedrals  of  Rheims,  Amiens, 
Rouen,  Chartres,  and  Paris  (probably  also  in  many  other  in- 
stances unknown  to  me).  These  repairs  were,  in  many  cases, 
necessary  up  to  a certain  point ; and  they  have  been  executed 
by  architects  as  skilful  and  learned  as  at  present  exist, — 


THE  OPEHIHG  OF  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


5 


executed  with  noble  disregard  of  expense,  and  sincere  desire 
on  the  part  of  their  superintendents  that  they  should  be  com- 
pleted in  a manner  honourable  to  the  country. 

They  are  nevertheless  more  fatal  to  the  monuments  they 
are  intended  to  preserve,  than  tire,  war,  or  revolution.  For 
they  are  undertaken,  in  the  plurality  of  instances,  under  an 
impression,  which  the  etforts  of  all  true  antiquaries  have  as 
yet  been  unable  to  remove,  that  it  is  possible  to  reproduce 
the  mutilated  sculpture  of  past  ages  in  its  original  beauty. 

^^Keproduire  avec  une  exactitude  mathematique,’’  are  the 
words  used,  by  one  of  the  most  intelligent  writers  on  this 
subject,*  of  the  proposed  regeneration  of  the  statue  of  Ste. 
Modeste,  on  the  north  porch  of  the  Cathedral  of  Chartres. 

Now,  it  is  not  the  question  at  present,  whether  13th  century 
sculpture  be  of  value,  or  not.  Its  value  is  assumed  by  the 
authorities  who  have  devoted  sums  so  large  to  its  so-called 
restoration,  and  may  therefore  be  assumed  in  my  argument. 
The  worst  state  of  the  sculptures  whose  restoration  is  demanded 
may  be  fairly  represented  by  that  of  the  celebrated  group  of 
the  Fates,  among  the  Elgin  Marbles  in  the  British  Museum. 
With  what  favour  would  the  guardians  of  those  marbles,  or 
any  other  persons  interested  in  Greek  art,  receive  a proposal 
from  a living  sculptor  to  reproduce  with  mathematical  exac- 
titude” the  group  of  the  Fates,  in  a perfect  form,  and  to 
destroy  the  original?  For  with  exactly  such  favour,  those 
who  are  interested  in  Gothic  art  should  receive  proposals  to 
reproduce  the  sculpture  of  Chartres  or  Rouen. 

In  like  manner,  the  state  of  the  architecture  which  it  is 
proposed  to  restore,  may,  at  its  worst,  be  fairly  represented  to 
the  British  public  by  that  of  the  best  preserved  portions  of  Mel- 
rose Abbey.  With  what  encouragement  would  those  among 
us  who  are  sincerely  interested  in  history,  or  in  art,  receive 
a proposal  to  pull  down  Melrose  Abbey,  and  reproduce  it 
mathematically”  ? There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  answer 


* M.  I’Abbe  Bulteau,  Description  de  la  Catliedrale  de  Chartres,  (8vo. 
Paris,  Sagnier  et  Bray,  1850),  p.  98,  note. 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  CKYSTAL  PALACE. 


which,  in  the  instances  supposed,  it  would  be  proper  to  re- 
turn. By  all  means,  if  you  can,  reproduce  mathematically, 
elsewhere,  the  group  of  the  Fates,  and  the  Abbey  of  Melrose. 
But  leave  unharmed  the  original  fragment,  and  the  existing 
ruin.”  And  an  answer  of  the  same  tenour  ought  to  be  given 
to  every  proposal  to  restore  a Gothic  sculpture  or  building. 
Carve  or  raise  a model  of  it  in  some  other  part  of  the  city : 
but  touch  not  the  actual  edifice,  except  only  so  far  as  may  be 
necessary  to  sustain,  to  protect  it.  I said  above  that  repairs 
were  in  many  instances  necessary.  These  necessary  operations 
consist  in  substituting  new  stones  for  decayed  ones,  where 
they  are  absolutely  essential  to  the  stability  of  the  fabric ; in 
propping,  with  wood  or  metal,  the  portions  likely  to  give  way ; 
in  binding  or  cementing  into  their  places  the  sculptures  which 
are  ready  to  detach  themselves ; and  in  general  care  to  remove 
luxuriant  weeds,  and  obstructions  of  the  channels  for  the  dis- 
charge of  the  rain.  But  no  modern  or  imitative  sculpture 
ought  ever^  under  any  circumstances,  to  be  mingled  with  the 
ancient  work. 

Unfortunately,  repairs  thus  conscientiously  executed  are 
always  unsightly,  and  meet  with  little  approbation  from  the 
general  public;  so  that  a strong  temptation  is  necessarily  felt 
by  all  superintendents  of  public  works,  to  execute  the  required 
repairs  in  a manner  which,  though  indeed  fatal  to  the  monu- 
ment, may  be,  in  appearance,  seemly.  But  a far  more  cruel 
temptation  is  held  out  to  the  architect.  He  who  should  pro- 
pose to  a municipal  body,  to  build  in  the  form  of  a new 
church,  to  be  erected  in  some  other  part  of  their  city,  models 
of  such  portions  of  their  cathedral  as  were  falling  into  decay, 
would  be  looked  upon  as  merely  asking  for  employment,  and 
his  offer  would  be  rejected  with  disdain.  But  let  an  architect 
declare  that  the  existing  fabric  stands  in  need  of  repairs,  and 
offer  to  restore  it  to  its  original  beauty,  and  he  is  instantly 
regarded  as  a lover  of  his  country,  and  has  a chance  of  obtain- 
ing a commission  which  will  furnish  him  with  a large  and 
steady  income,  and  enormous  patronage,  for  twenty  or  thirty 
years  to  come. 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


7 


I have  great  respect  for  human  nature.  But  I would  rather 
leave  it  to  others  than  myself  to  pronounce  how  far  such  a 
temptation  is  always  likely  to  be  resisted,  and  how  far,  when 
repairs  are  once  permitted  to  be  undertaken,  a fabric  is  likely 
to  be  spared  from  mere  interest  in  its  beauty,  when  its  destruc- 
tion, under  the  name  of  restoration,  has  become  permanently 
remunerative  to  a large  body  of  workmen. 

Let  us  assume,  however,  that  the  architect  is  always  con- 
scientious— always  willing,  the  moment  he  has  done  what  is 
strictly  necessary  for  the  safety  and  decorous  aspect  of  the 
building,  to  abandon  his  income,  and  declare  his  farther  ser- 
vices unnecessary.  Let  us  presume,  also,  that  every  one  of 
the  two  or  three  hundred  workmen  who  must  be  employed 
under  him,  is  equally  conscientious,  and,  during  the  course  of 
years  of  labour,  will  never  destroy  in  carelessness  what  it  may 
be  inconvenient  to  save,  or  in  cunning,  what  it  is  difficult  to 
imitate.  Will  all  this  probity  of  purpose  preserve  the  hand 
from  error,  and  the  heart  from  weariness?  Will  it  give  dex- 
terity to  the  awkward — sagacity  to  the  dull — and  at  once 
invest  two  or  three  hundred  imperfectly  educated  men  with 
the  feeling,  intention,  and  information,  of  the  freemasons  of 
the  13th  century  ? Grant  that  it  can  do  all  this,  and  that  the 
new  building  is  both  equal  to  the  old  in  beauty,  and  precisely 
correspondent  to  it  in  detail.  Is  it,  therefore,  altogether  worth 
the  old  building?  Is  the  stone  carved  to-day  in  their  masons’ 
yards  altogether  the  same  in  value  to  the  hearts  of  the  French 
people  as  that  which  the  eyes  of  St.  Louis  saw  lifted  to  its 
place?  Would  a loving  daughter,  in  mere  desire  for  gaudy 
dress,  ask  a jeweller  for  a bright  facsimile  of  the  worn  cross 
which  her  mother  bequeathed  to  her  on  her  deathbed  ? — would 
a thoughtful  nation,  in  mere  fondness  for  splendour  of  streets, 
ask  its  architects  to  provide  for  it  facsimiles  of  the  temples 
which  for  centuries  had  given  joy  to  its  saints,  comfort  to  its 
mourners,  and  strength  to  its  chivalry  ? 

But  it  may  be  replied,  that  all  this  is  already  admitted  by 
the  antiquaries  of  France  and  England ; and  that  it  is  impos- 


8 


THE  OPEKING  OP  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


dble  that  works  so  important  shonld  now  be  undertaken 
mthont  due  consideration  and  faithful  superintendence. 

I answer,  that  the  men  who  justly  feel  these  truths  are 
rarely  those  who  have  much  influence  in  public  affairs.  It  is 
the  poor  abbe,  whose  little  garden  is  sheltered  by  the  mighty 
buttresses  from  the  north  wind,  who  knows  the  worth  of  tlie 
cathedral.  It  is  the  bustling  mayor  and  the  prosperous  archi- 
tect who  determine  its  fate. 

I answer  farther,  by  the  statement  of  a simple  fact.  I have 
given  many  years,  in  many  cities,  to  the  study  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture ; and  of  all  that  I know,  or  knew,  the  entrance  to  the 
north  transept  of  Eouen  Cathedral  was,  on  the  whole,  the 
most  beautiful — beautifnl,  not  only  as  an  elaborate  and  fault- 
less work  of  the  flnest  time  of  Gothic  art,  but  yet  more 
beautiful  in  the  partial,  though  not  dangerous,  decay  which 
had  touched  its  pinnacles  with  pensive  colouring,  and  softened 
its  severer  lines  with  unexpected  change,  and  delicate  fracture, 
like  sweet  breaks  in  a distant  music.  The  upper  part  of  it 
has  been  already  restored  to  the  white  accuracies  of  novelty ; 
the  lower  pinnacles,  which  flanked  its  approach,  far  more 
exquisite  in  their  partial  ruin  than  the  loveliest  remains  of  our 
English  abbeys,  have  been  entirely  destroyed,  and  rebuilt  in 
rough  blocks,  now  in  process  of  sculpture.  This  restoration, 
so  far  as  it  has  gone,  has  been  executed  by  peculiarly  skilful 
workmen ; it  is  an  unusually  favourable  example  of  restora- 
tion, especially  in  the  care  which  has  been  taken  to  preserve 
intact  the  exquisite,  and  hitherto  almost  uninjured  sculptures 
which  All  the  quatrefoils  of  the  tracery  above  the  arch.  But 
I happened  myself  to  have  made,  flve  years  ago,  detailed 
drawings  of  the  buttress  decorations  on  the  right  and  left  of 
this  tracery,  which  are  part  of  the  work  that  has  been  com- 
pletely restored.  And  I found  the  restorations  as  inaccurate 
as  they  were  unnecessary. 

If  this  is  the  case  in  a most  favourable  instance,  in  that  of  a 
well-known  monument,  highly  esteemed  by  every  antiquary  in 
France,  what,  during  the  progress  of  the  now  almost  universal 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


9 


repairs,  is  likely  to  become  of  architecture  which  is  unwatched 
and  despised  ? 

Despised  ! and  more  than  despised — even  hated ! It  is  a 
sad  truth,  that  there  is  something  in  the  solemn  aspect  of 
ancient  architecture  which,  in  rebuking  frivolity  and  chasten- 
ing gaiety,  has  become  at  this  time  literally  repulsive  to  a 
large  majority  of  the  population  of  Europe.  Examine  the 
direction  which  is  taken  by  all  the  influences  of  fortune  and 
of  fancy,  wherever  they  concern  themselves  with  art,  and  it 
will  be  found  that  the  real,  earnest  effort  of  the  upper  classes 
of  European  society  is  to  make  every  place  in  the  world  as 
much  like  the  Champs  Elysees  of  Paris  as  possible.  Wlier- 
ever  the  influence  of  that  educated  society  is  felt,  the  old 
buildings  are  relentlessly  destroyed ; vast  hotels,  like  barracks, 
and  rows  of  high,  square-windowed  dwelling-houses,  thrust 
themselves  forward  to  conceal  the  hated  antiquities  of  the 
great  cities  of  France  and  Italy.  Gay  promenades,  with  foun^ 
tains  and  statues,  prolong  themselves  along  the  quays  once 
dedicated  to  commerce ; ball-rooms  and  theatres  rise  upon  the 
dust  of  desecrated  chapels,  and  thrust  into  darkness  the  humil- 
ity of  domestic  life.  And  when  the  formal  street,  in  all  its 
pride  of  perfumery  and  confectionery,  has  successfully  con- 
sumed its  way  through  the  wrecks  of  historical  monuments, 
and  consummated  its  symmetry  in  the  ruin  of  all  that  once 
prompted  to  reflection,  or  pleaded  for  regard,  the  whitened 
city  is  praised  for  its  splendour,  and  the  exulting  inhabitants 
for  their  patriotism — patriotism  which  consists  in  insulting 
their  fathers  with  forgetfulness,  and  surrounding  their  children 
with  temptation. 

I am  far  from  intending  my  words  to  involve  any  disrespect- 
ful allusion  to  the  very  noble  improvements  in  the  city  of 
Paris  itself,  lately  carried  out  under  the  encouragement  of  the 
Emperor.  Paris,  in  its  own  peculiar  character  of  bright  mag- 
niflcence,  had  nothing  to  fear,  and  everything  to  gain,  from 
the  gorgeous  prolongations  of  the  Eue  Rivoli.  But  I speak 
of  the  general  influence  of  the  rich  travellers  and  proprietors 
of  Europe  on  the  cities  which  they  pretend  to  admire,  or  en- 


10 


THE  OPElsriKG  OF  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


deavonr  to  improve.  I speak  of  the  changes  wrought  during 
my  own  lifetime,  on  the  cities  of  Venice,  Florence,  Geneva, 
Lucerne,  and  chief  of  all  on  Rouen  : a city  altogether  inesti- 
mable for  its  retention  of  mediaeval  character  in  the  infinitely 
varied  streets  in  which  one  half  of  the  existing  and  inhabited 
houses  date  from  the  15th  or  early  16th  century ; and  the 
only  town  left  in  France  in  which  the  effect  of  old  French  do- 
mestic architecture  can  yet  be  seen  in  its  collective  groups. 
But  when  I was  there,  this  last  spring,  I heard  that  these 
noble  old  Norman  houses  are  all,  as  speedily  as  may  be,  to  be 
stripped  of  the  dark  slates  which  protected  their  timbers,  and 
deliberately  whitewashed  over  all  their  sculptures  and  orna- 
ments, in  order  to  bring  the  interior  of  the  town  into  some 
conformity  with  the  handsome  fronts’’  of  the  hotels  and 
offices  on  the  quay. 

Hotels  and  offices,  and  ‘‘  handsome  fronts  ” in  general  — 
they  can  be  built  in  America  or  Australia — built  at  any  mo- 
ment, and  in  any  height  of  splendour.  But  who  shall  give 
us  back,  when  once  destroyed,  the  habitations  of  the  French 
chivalry  and  bourgeoisie,  in  the  days  of  the  Field  of  the  Cloth 
of  Gold? 

It  is  strange  that  no  one  seems  to  think  of  this  ! What  do 
men  travel  for,  in  this  Europe  of  ours  ? Is  it  only  to  gamble 
with  French  dies — to  drink  coffee  out  of  French  porcelain — 
to  dance  to  the  beat  of  German  drums,  and  sleep  in  the  soft 
air  of  Italy  ? Are  the  ball-room,  the  billiard-room,  and  the 
Boulevard,  the  only  attractions  that  win  us  into  wandering,  or 
tempt  us  to  repose  ? And  when  the  time  is  come,  as  come  it 
will,  and  that  shortly,  when  the  parsimony — or  lassitude  — 
which,  for  the  most  part,  are  the  only  protectors  of  the  rem- 
nants of  elder  time,  shall  be  scattered  by  the  advance  of  civilisa- 
tion— when  all  the  monuments,  preserved  only  because  it  was 
too  costly  to  destroy  them,  shall  have  been  crushed  by  the 
energies  of  the  new  world,  will  the  proud  nations  of  the 
twentieth  century,  looking  round  on  the  plains  of  Europe, 
disencumbered  of  their  memorial  marbles, — will  those  nations 
indeed  stand  up  with  no  other  feeling  than  one  of  triumph. 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


11 


freed  from  tlie  paralysis  of  precedent  and  the  entanglement  of 
memory,  to  thank  us,  the  fathers  of  progress,  that  no  sadden- 
ing shadows  can  any  more  trouble  the  enjoyments  of  the 
future, — no  moments  of  reflection  retard  its  activities;  and 
that  the  new-born  population  of  a world  without  a record  and 
without  a ruin,  may,  in  the  fulness  of  ephemeral  felicity,  dis- 
pose itself  to  eat,  and  to  drink,  and  to  die  ? 

Is  this  verily  the  end  at  which  we  aim,  and  will  the  mission 
of  the  age  have  been  then  only  accomplished,  when  the  last 
castle  has  fallen  from  our  rocks,  the  last  cloisters  faded  from 
our  valleys,  the  last  streets,  in  which  the  dead  have  dwelt, 
been  effaced  from  our  cities,  and  regenerated  society  is  left  in 
luxurious  possession  of  towns  composed  only  of  bright  saloons, 
overlooking  gay  parterres  ? If  this  be  indeed  our  end,  yet 
why  must  it  be  so  laboriously  accomplished  ? Are  there  no 
new  countries  on  the  earth,  as  yet  uncrowned  by  Thorns  of 
cathedral  spires,  untormented  by  the  consciousness  of  a past  ? 
Must  this  little  Europe — this  corner  of  our  globe,  gilded  with 
the  blood  of  old  battles,  and  grey  with  the  temples  of  old 
pieties — this  narrow  piece  of  the  world’s  pavement,  worn  down 
by  so  many  pilgrims’  feet,  be  utterly  swept  and  garnished  for 
the  masque  of  the  Future  ? Is  America  not  wide  enough  for 
the  elasticities  of  our  humanity  ? Asia  not  rich  enough  for  its 
pride  ? or  among  the  quiet  meadow-lands  and  solitary  hills  of 
the  old  land,  is  there  not  yet  room  enough  for  the  spreadings 
of  power,  or  the  indulgences  of  magniflcence,  without  found- 
ing all  glory  upon  ruin,  and  prefacing  all  progress  with  ob- 
literation ? 

We  must  answer  these  questions  speedily,  or  we  answer 
them  in  vain.  The  peculiar  character  of  the  evil  which  is 
being  wrought  by  this  age  is  its  utter  irreparableness.  Its 
newly  formed  schools  of  art,  its  extending  galleries,  and  well- 
ordered  museums  will  assuredly  bear  some  fruit  in  time,  and 
give  once  more  to  the  popular  mind  the  power  to  discern  what 
is  great,  and  the  disposition  to  protect  what  is  precious.  But 
it  will  be  too  late.  We  shall  wander  through  our  palaces  of 
crystal,  gazing  sadly  on  copies  of  pictures  torn  by  cannon- 


12 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


shot,  and  on  casts  of  sculpture  dashed  to  pieces  long  ago.  We 
shall  gradually  learn  to  distinguish  originality  and  sincerity 
from  the  decrepitudes  of  imitation  and  palsies  of  repetition ; 
but  it  will  be  only  in  hopelessness  to  recognise  the  truth,  that 
architecture  and  painting  can  be  restored  ’’  when  the  dead 
can  be  raised, — and  not  till  then. 

Something  might  yet  be  done,  if  it  were  but  possible  thor- 
oughly to  awaken  and  alarm  the  men  whose  studies  of  arch- 
aeology have  enabled  them  to  form  an  accurate  judgment  of 
the  importance  of  the  crisis.  But  it  is  one  of  the  strange  char- 
acters of  the  human  mind,  necessary,  indeed  to  its  peace,  but 
infinitely  destructive  of  its  power,  that  we  never  thoroughly 
feel  the  evils  which  are  not  actually  set  before  our  eyes.  If, 
suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  enjoyments  of  the  palate  and 
lightnesses  of  heart  of  a London  dinner-party,  the  walls  of  the 
chamber  were  parted,  and  through  their  gap,  the  nearest  hu- 
man beings  wdio  were  famishing,  and  in  misery,  were  borne 
into  the  midst  of  the  company — feasting  and  fancy-free — if, 
pale  with  sickness,  horrible  in  destitution,  broken  by  despair, 
body  by  body,  they  were  laid  upon  the  soft  carpet,  one  beside 
the  chair  of  every  guest,  would  only  the  crumbs  of  the  dainties 
be  cast  to  them — wmuld  only  a passing  glance,  a passing  thought 
be  vouchsafed  to  them  ? Yet  the  actual  facts,  the  real  relations 
of  each  Dives  and  Lazarus,  are  not  altered  by  the  intervention 
of  the  house  wall  between  the  table  and  the  sick-bed — by  the 
few  feet  of  ground  (how  few !)  which  are  indeed  all  that  sepa- 
rate the  merriment  from  the  misery. 

It  is  the  same  in  the  matters  of  which  I have  hitherto  been 
speaking.  If  every  one  of  us,  who  knows  what  food  for  the 
human  heart  there  is  in  the  great  works  of  elder  time,  could 
indeed  see  with  his  own  eyes  their  progressive  ruin  ; if  every 
earnest  antiquarian,  happy  in  his  well-ordered  library,  and  in 
the  sense  of  having  been  useful  in  preserving  an  old  stone  or 
two  out  of  his  parish  church,  and  an  old  coin  or  two  out  of  a 
furrow  in  the  next  ploughed  field,  could  indeed  behold,  each 
morning  as  he  awaked,  the  mightiest  works  of  departed  nations 
mouldering  to  the  ground  in  disregarded  heaps ; if  he  could 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


13 


always  have  in  clear  phantasm  before  his  eyes  the  ignorant 
monk  trampling  on  the  manuscript,  the  village  mason  striking 
down  the  monument,  the  court  painter  daubing  the  despised 
and  priceless  masterpiece  into  freshness  of  fatuity,  he  would 
not  always  smile  so  complacently  in  the  thoughts  of  the  little 
learnings  and  petty  preservations  of  his  own  immediate  sphere. 
And  if  every  man  who  has  the  interest  of  Art  and  of  History 
at  heart,  would  at  once  devote  himself  earnestly — not  to  en- 
rich his  own  collection — not  even  to  enlighten  his  own  neigh- 
bours or  investigate  his  own  parish-territory — but  to  far-sighted 
and  yb/’^-sighted  endeavour  in  the  great  field  of  Europe,  there 
is  yet  time  to  do  much.  An  association  might  be  formed 
thoroughly  organised  so  as  to  maintain  active  watchers  and 
agents  in  every  town  of  importance,  who,  in  the  first  place, 
should  furnish  the  society  with  a jperfect  account  of  every 
monument  of  interest  in  its  neighbourhood,  and  then  with  a 
yearly  or  half-yearly  report  of  the  state  of  such  monuments, 
and  of  the  changes  proposed  t j be  made  upon  them  ; the  so- 
ciety then  furnishing  funds,  either  to  buy,  freehold,  such 
buildings  or  other  works  of  untransferable  art  as  at  any  time 
might  be  offered  for  sale,  or  to  assist  their  proprietors,  whether 
private  individuals  or  public  bodies,  in  the  maintenance  of 
such  guardianship  as  was  really  necessary  for  their  safety ; 
and  exerting  itself,  with  all  the  infiuence  which  such  an  associ- 
ation would  rapidly  command,  to  prevent  unwise  restoration, 
and  unnecessary  destruction. 

Such  a society  would  of  course  be  rewarded  only  by  the 
consciousness  of  its  usefulness.  Its  funds  would  have  to  be 
supplied,  in  pure  self-denial,  by  its  members,  who  would  be 
required,  so  far  as  they  assisted  it,  to  give  up  the  pleasure  of 
purchasing  prints  or  pictures  for  their  own  walls,  that  they 
might  save  pictures  which  in  their  lifetime  they  might  never 
behold ; — they  would  have  to  forego  the  enlargement  of  their 
own  estates,  that  they  might  buy,  for  a European  property, 
ground  on  which  their  feet  might  never  tread.  But  is  it  ab- 
surd to  believe  that  men  are  capable  of  doing  this  ? Is  the 
love  of  art  altogether  a selfish  principle  in  the  heart  ? and  are 


14 


THE  OFE^ING  OF  THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 


its  emotions  altogether  incompatible  with  the  exertions  of 
self-denial,  or  enjoyments  of  generosity  ? 

I make  this  appeal  at  the  risk  of  incurring  only  contempt 
for  my  Utopianism.  But  I should  for  ever  reproach  myself  if 
I were  prevented  from  making  it  by  such  a risk  ; and  I pray 
those  who  may  be  disposed  in  anywise  to  favour  it,  to  remem- 
ber that  it  must  be  answered  at  once  or  never.  The  next  five 
years  determine  what  is  to  be  saved — what  destroyed.  The 
restorations  have  actually  begun  like  cancers  on  every  impor- 
tant piece  of  Gothic  architecture  in  Christendom  ; the  question 
is  only  how  much  can  yet  be  saved.  All  projects,  all  pursuits, 
having  reference  to  art,  are  at  this  moment  of  less  importance 
than  those  which  are  simply  protective.  There  is  time  enough 
for  everything  else.  Time  enough  for  teaching — time  enough 
for  criticising — time  enough  for  inventing.  But  time  little 
enough  for  saving.  Hereafter  we  can  create,  but  it  is  now 
only  that  we  can  preserve.  By  the  exertion  of  great  national 
powers,  and  under  the  guidance  of  enlightened  monarchs,  we 
may  raise  magnificent  temples  and  gorgeous  cities ; we  may 
furnish  labour  for  the  idle,  and  interest  for  the  ignorant.  But 
the  power  neither  of  emperors,  nor  queens,  nor  kingdoms,  can 
ever  print  again  upon  the  sands  of  time  the  effaced  footsteps 
of  departed  generations,  or  gather  together  from  the  dust  the 
stones  which  had  been  stamped  with  the  spirit  of  our  ances- 
tors. 


THE  END. 


LOVE’S  MEINIE 


LECTURES 


ON 


G REEK  AND  ENGLISH  BIRDS 


GIVEN  BEFORE  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  OXFORD. 


BY 

JOHN  EUSKIN,  LL.D., 

HONORARY  STUDENT  OF  CHRISTCHURCH,  AND  SHADE  PROFESSOR  OF  FINE 


NEW  YORK  AND  SAINT  PAUL: 

D.  D.  MERRILL  COMPANY. 


/; 


I 


ADVICE 


I PUBLISH  these  lectures  at  present  roughly,  in  the  form  in  which 
they  were  delivered, — (necessarily  more  brief  and  broken  than  that 
which  may  be  permitted  when  time  is  not  limited,) — because  I know 
that  some  ot  their  hearers  wished  to  obtain  them  for  immediate 
reference.  Ultimately,  I hope,  they  will  be  completed  in  an  illus- 
trated volume,  containing  at  least  six  lectures,  on  the  Robin,  the 
Swallow,  the  Chough,  the  Lark,  the  Swan,  and  the  Sea-gull.  But 
months  pass  by  me  now,  like  days ; and  my  work  remains  only  in 
design.  I think  it  better,  therefore,  to  let  the  lectures  appear  sepa- 
rately, with  provisional  wood-cuts,  afterwards  to  be  bettered,  or  re- 
placed by  more  finished  engravings.  The  illustrated  volume,  if  ever 
finished,  will  cost  a guinea  ; but  these  separate  lectures  a shilling,  or, 
if  long,  one  shilling  and  sixpence  each.  The  guinea’s  worth  will, 
perhaps,  be  the  cheaper  book  in  the  end ; but  I shall  be  glad  if  some 
of  my  hearers  felt  interest  enough  in  the  subject  to  prevent  their 
waitinqr  for  it. 

The  modern  vulgarization  of  the  word  “ advertisement  ” renders, 
I think,  the  use  of  ‘ advice  ’ as  above,  in  the  sense  of  the  French 
‘avis’  (passing  into  our  old  English  verb  ‘avise’)  on  the  whole, 

preferable. 

Brantwood, 

June^  1878, 


1 


LOVE’S  MEINIE. 


“II  etoit  tout  convert  d’oisiaulx.” 

Eomance  of  the  Rose. 


LECTUEE  I. 

THE  KOBIN. 

1.  Among  the  more  splendid  pictures  in  the  Exhibition  of 
the  Old  Masters,  this  year,  you  cannot  but  remember  the 
Vandyke  portraits  of  the  two  sons  of  the  Duke  of  Lennox. 
I think  you  cannot  but  remember  it,  because  it  would  be 
difficult  to  find,  even  among  the  works  of  Vandyke,  a 
more  striking  representation  of  the  youth  of  our  English 
noblesse ; nor  one  in  which  the  painter  had  more  exerted 
himself,  or  with  better  success,  in  rendering  the  decorous 
pride  and  natural  grace  of  honourable  aristocracy. 

Vandyke  is,  however,  inferior  to  Titian  and  Velasquez, 
in  that  his  effort  to  show  this  noblesse  of  air  and  persons 
may  always  be  detected;  also  the  aristocracy  of  Van- 
dyke’s day  were  already  so  far  fearful  of  their  own  posi- 
tion as  to  feel  anxiety  that  it  should  be  immediately  rec- 
ognized. And  the  effect  of  the  painter’s  conscious  defer- 


6 


LOVE  S MEINIE. 


ence,  and  of  the  equally  conscious  pride  of  the  boys,  as 
they  stood  to  be  painted,  has  been  somewhat  to  shorten 
the  power  of  the  one,  and  to  abase  the  dignity  of  the 
other.  And  thus,  in  the  midst  of  my  admiration  of  the 
youths^  beautiful  faces,  and  natural  quality  of  majesty, 
set  off  by  all  splendours  of  dress  and  courtesies  of  art,  I 
could  not  forbear  questioning  with  myself  what  the  true 
value  was,  in  the  scales  of  creation,  of  these  fair  human 
beings  who  set  so  high  a value  on  themselves ; and, — as  if 
the  only  answer, — the  words  kept  repeating  themselves  in 
my  ear,  Ye  are  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows.” 


\ 2.  Passeres,  arpovOoc^ — the  things  that  open  their  wnngs, 
and  are  not  otherwise  noticeable ; small  birds  of  the  land 
and  wood ; the  food  of  the  serpent,  of  man,  or  of  the 
stronger  creatures  of  their  own  kind, — that  even  these, 
though  among  the  simplest  and  obscurest  of  beings,  have 
yet  price  in  the  eyes  of  tlieir  Maker,  and  that  the  death  of 
one  of  them  cannot  take  place  but  by  His  permission,  has 
long  been  the  subject  of  declamation  in  our  pulpits,  and 
the  ground  of  much  sentiment  in  nursery  education.  But 
the  declamation  is  so  aimless,  and  the  sentiment  so  hollow, 
that,  practically,  the  chief  interest  of  the  leisure  of  man- 
kind has  been  found  in  the  destruction  of  the  creatures 
which  they  professed  to  believe  even  the  Most  High 
would  not  see  perish  without  pity ; and,  in  recent  days,  it 
is  fast  becoming  the  only  definition  of  aristocracy,  that 
the  principal  business  of  its  life  is  the  killing  of  sparrows. 

Sparrows,  or  pigeons,  or  partridges,  what  does  it  mat- 


LOVE'S  MEINIE. 


1 


ter  ? “ Centum  mille  perdrices  plumbo  confecit ; ” * that 

is,  indeed,  too  often  the  sum  of  the  life  of  an  English 
lord;  much  questionable  now,  if  indeed  of  more  value 
than  that  of  many  sparrows. 

3.  Is  it  not  a strange  fact,  that,  interested  in  nothing  so 
much  for  the  last  two  hundred  years,  as  in  his  horses,  he 
yet  left  it  to  the  farmers  of  Scotland  to  relieve  draught 
horses  from  the  bearing-rein ; f is  it  not  one  equally 
strange  that,  master  of  the  forests  of  England  for  a thou- 
sand years,  and  of  its  libraries  for  three  hundred,  he  left 
the  natural  history  of  birds  to  be  written  by  a card-prin- 
ter’s lad  of  Newcastle  ? Written,  and  not  written,  for  in- 
deed we  have  no  natural  history  of  birds  written  yet.  It 
cannot  be  written  but  by  a scholar  and  a gentleman  ; and 
no  English  gentleman  in  recent  times  has  ever  thought  of 
birds  except  as  flying  targets,  or  flavourous  dishes.  The 
only  piece  of  natural  history  worth  the  name  in  the  Eng- 
lish language,  that  I know  of,  is  in  the  few  lines  of  Milton 
on  the  Creation.  The  only  example  of  a proper  manner 
of  contribution  to  natural  history  is  in  White’s  Letters 
from  Selborne.  You  know  I have  always  spoken  of  Bew- 
ick as  pre-eminently  a vulgar  or  boorish  person,  though 
of  splendid  honour  and  genius;  his  vulgarity  shows  in 
nothing  so  much  as  in  the  poverty  of  the  details  he  has 
collected,  with  the  best  intentions,  and  the  shrewdest 


* The  epitaph  on  Count  Zachdarm,  in  “ Sartor  Resartus.” 
f Sir  Arthur  Helps,  “ Animals  and  their  Masters,”  p.  67. 


8 


love’s  meinie. 


sense,  for  English  ornithology.  His  imagination  is  not 
cultivated  enough  to  enable  him  to  choose,  or  arrange. 

4.  Nor  can  much  more  be  said  for  the  observations  of 
modern  science.  It  is  vulgar  in  a far  worse  way,  by  its 
arrogance  and  materialism.  In  general,  the  scientific 
natural  history  of  a bird  consists  of  four  articles, — first, 
the  name  and  estate  of  the  gentleman  whose  gamekeepei 
shot  the  last  that  was  seen  in  England ; secondly,  two  oi 
three  stories  of  doubtful  origin,  printed  in  every  book  on 
the  subject  of  birds  for  the  last  fifty  years ; thirdly,  an 
account  of  the  feathers,  from  the  comb  to  the  rump,  with 
enumeration  of  the  colours  which  are  never  more  to  be 
seen  on  the  living  bird  by  English  eyes;  and,  lastly,  a 
discussion  of  the  reasons  why  none  of  the  twelve  names 
which  former  naturalists  have  given  to  the  bird  are  of  any 
further  use,  and  why  the  present  author  has  given  it  a 
thirteenth,  which  is  to  be  universally,  and  to  the  end  of 
time,  accepted. 

5.  You  may  fancy  this  is  caricature ; but  the  abyss  of 
confusion  produced  by  modern  science  in  nomenclature, 
and  the  utter  void  of  the  abyss  when  you  plunge  into  it 
after  any  one  useful  fact,  surpass  all  caricature.  I have 
in  my  hand  thirteen  plates  of  thirteen  species  of  eagles ; 
eagles  all,  or  hawks  all,  or  falcons  all — whichever  name 
you  choose  for  the  great  race  of  the  hook-headed  birds  of 
prey — some  so  like  that  you  can’t  tell  the  one  from  the 
other,  at  the  distance  at  which  I show  them  to  you,  all 
absolutely  alike  in  their  eagle  or  falcon  character,  having 


LOVERS  MEINTB. 


9 


every  one,  the  falx  for  its  beak,  and  every  one,  flesh  for 
its  prey.  Do  yon  suppose  the  unhappy  student  is  to  be 
allowed  to  call  them  all  eagles,  or  all  falcons,  to  begin 
with,  as  would  be  the  first  condition  of  a wise  nomencla- 
ture, establishing  resemblance  by  specific  name,  before 
marking  variation  by  individual  name?  No  such  luck. 
I hold  you  up  the  plates  of  the  thirteen  birds  one  by  one, 
and  read  you  their  names  off  the  back : — 


The  first 

is  an  Aquila. 

The  second. 

a Halisetus. 

The  third. 

a Milvus. 

The  fourth. 

a Pandion. 

The  fifth. 

an  Astur. 

The  sixth. 

a Falco. 

The  seventh. 

a Pernis. 

The  eighth. 

a Circus. 

The  ninth. 

a Buteo. 

The  tenth. 

an  Archibuteo. 

The  eleventh, 

an  Accipiter. 

The  twelfth. 

an  Erythropus. 

And  the  thirteenth,  a Tinnunculus. 

There’s  a nice  little  lesson  to  entertain  a parish  school- 
boy with,  beginning  his  natural  history  of  birds  ! 

6.  There  are  not  so  many  varieties  of  robin  as  of  hawk, 
but  the  scientific  classifiers  are  not  to  be  beaten.  If  they 
cannot  find  a number  of  similar  birds  to  give  different 
names  to,  they  will  give  two  names  to  the  same  one. 
Here  are  two  pictures  of  your  own  redbreast,  out  of  the 


10 


love’s  meinie. 


two  best  modern  works  on  ornithology.  In  one,  it  h 
called  Motacilla  rubecula ; ” in  the  other,  “ Eubecula 
familiaris.” 

7.  It  is  indeed  one  of  the  most  serious,  as  one  of  the 
most  absurd,  weaknesses,  of  modern  naturalists  to  imagine 
that  any  presently  invented  nomenclature  can  stand,  even 
were  it  adopted  by  the  consent  of  nations,  instead  of  the 
conceit  of  individuals.  It  will  take  fifty  years’  digestion 
before  the  recently  ascertained  elements  of  natural  sci- 
ence can  permit  the  arrangement  of  species  in  any  per- 
manently (even  over  a limited  period)  nameable  order; 
nor  then,  unless  a great  man  is  born  to  perceive  and 
exhibit  such  order.  In  the  meantime,  the  simplest  and 
most  descriptive  nomenclature  is  the  best.  Every  one  of 
these  birds,  for  instance,  might  be  called  falco  in  Latin, 
hawk  in  English,  some  word  being  added  to . distinguish 
the  genus,  which  should  describe  its  principal  aspect  or 
habit.  Falco  montium.  Mountain  Hawk  ; Falco  silvarum. 
Wood  Hawk;  Falco  procellarum.  Sea  Hawk;  and  the 
like.  Then,  one  descriptive  epithet  would  mark  species. 
Falco  montium,  aureus.  Golden  Eagle ; Falco  silvarum, 
apivorus.  Honey  Buzzard  ; and  so  on ; and  the  naturalists 
of  Vienna,  Paris,  and  London  should  confirm  the  names 
of  known  creatures,  in  conclave,  once  every  half  century, 
and  let  them  so  stand  for  the  next  fifty  years. 

8.  In  the  meantime,  you  yourselves,  or,  to  speak  more 
generally,  the  young  rising  scholars  of  England, — all  of 
you  who  care  for  life  as  well  as  literatm^e,  and  for 


LOVERS  MEINIE. 


11 


spirit, — even  the  poor  souls  of  birds, — as  well  as  lettering 
of  their  classes  in  books, — ^you,  with  all  care,  should  cher- 
ish the  old  Saxon-English  and  Norman-French  names  of 
birds,  and  ascertain  them  with  the  most  affectionate  re- 
search— never  despising  even  the  rudest  or  most  provincial 
forms : all  of  them  will,  some  day  or  other,  give  you  cine 
to  historical  points  of  interest.  Take,  for  example,  the 
common  English  name  of  this  low-flying  falcon,  the  most 
tameable  and  affectionate  of  his  tribe,  and  therefore,  I 
suppose,  fastest  vanishing  from  fleld  and  wood,  the  buz- 
zard. That  name  comes  from  the  Latin  buteo,’’  still 
retained  by  the  ornithologists ; but,  in  its  original  form, 
valueless,  to  you.  But  when  you  get  it  comfortably  cor- 
rupted into  Proven5al  ^^Busac,”  (whence  gradually  the 
French  busard,  and  our  buzzard,)  you  get  from  it  the 
delightful  compound  busacador,’’  adorer  of  buzzards  ” 
— meaning,  generally,  a sporting  person ; and  then  you 
have  Dante’s  Bertrand  de  Born,  the  first  troubadour  of 
war,  bearing  witness  to  you  how  the  love  of  mere  hunting 
and  falconry  was  already,  in  his  day,  degrading  the 
military  classes,  and,  so  far  from  being  a necessary 
adjunct  of  the  noble  disposition  of  lover  or  soldier,  was^ 
even  to  contempt,  showing  itself  separate  from  both. 

Le  ric  home,  cassador, 

M’enneion,  e’l  buzacador. 

Parian  de  volada,  d’austor, 

Ne  jamais  d’armas,  ni  d’amor,” 


12 


IiOVJfi  S SiO)JLNlJfi« 


The  rich  man,  the  chaser, 

Tires  me  to  death ; and  the  adorer  of  buzzards. 

They  talk  of  covey  and  hawk, 

And  never  of  arms,  nor  of  love. 

' ^Cassador,”  of  course,  afterwards  becomes  chasseur,” 
and  austor  ’•  vautour.”  But  after  you  have  read  this, 
and  familiarized  your  ear  with  the  old  word,  how  differ- 
ently Milton’s  phrase  will  ring  to  you, — “Those  who 
thought  no  better  of  the  Living  God  than  of  a buzzard 
idol,” — and  how  literal  it  becomes,  when  we  think  of  the 
actual  difference  between  a member  of  Parliament  in 
Milton’s  time,  and  the  Busacador  of  to-day ; — and  all  this 
freshness  and  value  in  the  reading,  observe,  come  of  your 
keeping  the  word  which  great  liien  have  used  for  the 
bird,  instead  of  letting  the  anatomists  blunder  out  a new 
one  from  their  Latin  dictionaries. 

9.  There  are  not  so  many  nameable  varieties,  I just  now 
said,  of  robin  as  of  falcon ; but  this  is  somewhat  inaccu- 
rately stated.  Those  thirteen  birds  represented  a very 
large  proportion  of  the  entire  group  of  the  birds  of  prey, 
which  in  my  sevenfold  classification  I recommended  you 
to  call  universally,  “ hawks.”  The  robin  is  only  one  of  the 
far  greater  multitude  of  small  birds  which  live  almost 
indiscriminately  on  grain  or  insects,  and  which  I recom- 
mended you  to  call  generally  “ sparrows ; ” but  of  the 
robin  itself,  there  are  two  important  European  varieties— 
one  red-breasted,  and  the  other  blue-breasted. 


love’s  mehob. 


13 


10.  You  probably,  some  of  you,  never  heard  of  the 
blue-breast;  very  few,  certainly,  have  seen  one  alive, 
and,  if  alive,  certainly  not  wild  in  England. 

Here  is  a picture  of  it,  daintily  done,^  and  you  can 
see  the  pretty  blue  shield  on  its  breast,  perhaps,  at  this 
distance.  Vain  shield,  if  ever  the  fair  little  thing  is 
wretched  enough  to  set  foot  on  English  ground  ! I tind 
the  last  that  was  seen  was  shot  at  Margate  so  long  ago  as 
1842, — and  there  seems  to  be  no  official  record  of  any 
visit  before  that,  since  Mr.  Thomas  Embledon  shot  one 
on  Newcastle  town  moor  in  1816.  But  this  rarity  of  visit 
to  us  is  strange;  other  birds  have  no  sucli  clear  objection 
to  being  shot,  and  really  seem  to  come  to  England  ex- 
pressly for  the  purpose.  And  yet  this  blue-bird — (one 
can’t  say  blue  robin  ” — I think  we  shall  have  to  call 
him  “ bluet,”  like  the  cornflower) — stays  in  Sweden, 
wfliere  it  sings  so  sweetly  that  it  is  called  a hundred 
tongues.” 

11.  That,  then,  is  the  utmost  which  the  lords  of  land, 
and  masters  of  science,  do  for  us  in  their  watch  upon  our 
feathered  suppliants.  One  kills  them,  the  other  writes 
classifying  epitaphs. 

We  have  next  to  ask  what  the  poets,  painters,  and 
monks  have  done. 

The  poets — among  whom  I affectionately  and  reverent' 
ly  class  the  sweet  singers  of  the  nursery,  mothers  and 


* Mr.  Gould’s,  in  his  “ Birds  of  Great  Britain. ” 


14 


love’s  meinie. 


nurses — have  done  much  ; very  nearly  all  that  I care  foi 
your  thinking  of.  The  painters  and  monks,  the  one  being 
so  greatly  under  the  influence  of  the  other,  we  may  for 
the  present  class  together;  and  may  almost  sum  their 
contributions  to  ornithology  in  saying  that  they  have 
plucked  the  wings  from  birds,  to  make  angels  of  men, 
and  the  claws  from  birds,  to  make  devils  of  men. 

If  you  were  to  take  away  from  religious  art  these  two 
great  helps  of  its  — I must  say,  on  the  whole,  very 
feeble — imagination ; if  you  were  to  take  from  it,  I say, 
the  power  of  putting  wings  on  shoulders,  and  claws  on 
Angers  and  toes,  how  wonderfully  the  sphere  of  its 
angelic  and  diabolic  characters  would  be  contracted ! 
Reduced  only  to^  the  sources  of  expression  in  face  or 
movements,  you  might  still  And  in  good  early  sculpture 
very  sufticient  devils ; but  the  best  angels  would  resolve 
themselves,  I think,  into  little  more  than,  and  not  often 
into  so  much  as,  the  likenesses  of  pretty  women,  with  that 
grave  and  (I  do  not  say  it  ironically)  majestic  expression 
which  they  put  on,  when,  being  very  fond  of  their  hus- 
bands and  children,  they  seriously  think  either  the  one  cr 
the  other  have  misbehaved  themselves. 

12.  And  it  is  not  a little  discouraging  for  me,  and  may 
well  make  you  doubtful  of  my  right  judgment  in  this  en- 
deavour to  lead  you  into  closer  attention  to  the  bird,  with 
its  wings  and  claws  still  in  its  own  possession  ; — it  is  dis- 
couraging, I say,  to  observe  that  the  beginning  of  such 
more  faithful  and  accurate  observation  in  former  art,  is 


love’s  meinie. 


15 


exactly  coeval  with  the  commencement  of  its  decline 
The  feverish  and  ungraceful  natural  history  of  Paul, 
called,  “ of  the  birds,”  Paolo  degli  Uccelli,  produced, 
indeed,  no  harmful  result  on  the  minds  of  his  contempo- 
raries; they  watched  in  him,  with  only  contemptuous 
admiration,  the  fantasy  of  zoological  instinct  which  filled 
his  house  with  painted  dogs,  cats,  and  birds,  because  he 
was  too  poor  to  fill  it  with  real  ones.  Their  judgment  of 
this  morbidly  naturalistic  art  was  conclusively  expressed 
by  the  sentence  of  Donatello,  when  going  one  morning 
into  the  Old  Market,  to  buy  fruit,  and  finding  the  animal 
painter  uncovering  a picture,  which  had  cost  him  months 
of  care,  (curiously  symbolic  in  its  subject,  the  infidelity  of 
St.  Tliomas,  of  the  investigatory  fingering  of  the  natural 
historian,)  “ Paul,  my  friend,”  said  Donatello,  thou  art 
uncovering  the  picture  just  when  thou  shoiildst  be  shut- 
ting it  up.” 

13.  No  harm,  therefore,  I repeat,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
some  wholesome  stimulus  to  the  fancy  of  men  like  Luca 
and  Donatello  themselves,  came  of  the  grotesque  and 
impertinent  zoology  of  Uccello. 

But  the  fatallest  institutor  of  proud  modern  anatomical 
and  scientific  art,  and  of  all  that  has  polluted  the  digni- 
ty, and  darkened  the  charity,  of  the  greater  ages,  was 
Antonio  Pollajuolo  of  Florence.  Antonio  (that  is  to  say) 
the  Poulterer — so  named  from  the  trade  of  his  grand- 
father, and  with  just  so  much  of  his  grandfather’s  trade 
left  in  his  own  disposition,  that  being  set  by  Lorenzo 


16 


love’s  meinte. 


Ghiberti  to  complete  one  of  the  ornamental  festoons  of 
the  gates  of  the  Florentine  Baptistery,  there,  (says  Y asari) 
‘‘  Antonio  produced  a quail,  which  may  still  be  seen,  and 
is  so  beautiful,  nay,  so  perfect,  that  it  wants  nothing  but 
the  power  of  flight.” 

14.  Here,  the  morbid  tendency  was  as  attractive  as 
it  was  subtle.  Ghiberti  himself  fell  under  the  influence 
of  it ; allowed  the  borders  of  his  gates,  with  their  flut- 
tering birds  and  bossy  fruits,  to  dispute  the  spectators’ 
favour  with  the  religious  subjects  they  enclosed;  and, 
from  that  day  forward,  minuteness  and  muscularity 
were,  with  curious  harmony  of  evil,  delighted  in  to- 
gether ; and  the  lancet  and  the  microscope,  in  the  hands 
of  fools,  were  supposed  to  be  complete  substitutes  for 
imagination  in  the  souls  of  wise  men:  so  that  even 
the  best  artists  are  gradually  compelled,  or  beguiled,  into 
compliance  with  the  curiosity  of  their  day ; and  Francia, 
in  the  city  of  Bologna,  is  held  to  be  a kind  of  god, 
more  particularly”  (again  1 quote  Yasari)  “after  he  had 
painted  a set  of  caparisons  for  the  Duke  of  Urbino, 
on  which  he  depicted  a great  forest  all  on  fire,  and 
whence  there  rushes  forth  an  immense  number  of  every 
kind  of  animal,  with  several  human  figures.  This  ter- 
rific, yet  truly  beautiful  representation,  was  all  the  more 
highly  esteemed  for  the  time  that  had  been  expended 
on  it  in  the  plumage  of  the  birds,  and  other  minutia3 
in  the  delineation  of  the  different  animals,  and  in  the 
diversity  of  the  branches  and  leaves  of  the  various  trees 


love’s  meinie. 


17 


seen  therein ; ” and  thenceforward  the  catastrophe  is 
direct,  to  the  ornithological  museums  which  Breughel 
painted  for  gardens  of  Eden,  and  to  the  still  life  and 
dead  game  of  Dutch  celebrities. 

15.  And  yet  I am  going  to  invite  you  to-day  to  ex- 
amine, down  to  almost  microscopic  detail,  the  aspect 
of  a small  bird,  and  to  invite  you  to  do  this,  as  a most 
expedient  and  sure  step  in  your  study  of  the  greatest 
art. 

But  the  difference  in  our  motive  of  examination  will 
entirely  alter  the  result.  To  paint  birds  that  we  may 
show  how  minutely  we  can  paint,  is  among  the  most 
contemptible  occupations  of  art.  To  paint  them,  that  we 
may  show  how  beautiful  they  are,  is  not  indeed  one 
of  its  highest,  but  quite  one  of  its  pleasantest  and  most 
useful ; it  is  a skill  within  the  reach  of  every  student 
of  average  capacity,  and  which,  so  far  as  acquired,  will 
assuredly  both  make  their  hearts  kinder,  and  their  lives 
happier. 

Without  further  preamble,  I will  ask  you  to  look 
to-day,  more  carefully  than  usual,  at  your  well-known 
favourite,  and  to  think  about  him  with  some  precision. 

16.  And  first.  Where  does  he  come  from?  I stated 
that  my  lectures  were  to  be  on  English  and  Greek  birds ; 
but  we  are  apt  to  fancy  the  robin  all  our  own.  How  ex- 
clusively, do  you  suppose,  he  really  belongs  to  us?  You 
would  think  this  was  the  first  point  to  be  settled  in  any 
book  about  him.  I have  hunted  all  my  books  through^ 


18  love’s  melnie. 

and  can’t  tell  you  how  much  he  is  our  own,  or  how  far  he 
is  a traveller. 

And,  indeed,  are  not  all  our  ideas  obscure  about  migra- 
tion itself?  You  are  broadly  told  that  a bird  travels, 
and  how  wonderful  it  is  that  it  finds  its  way;  but  you  are 
scarcely  ever  told,  or  led  to  think,  what  it  really  travels 
for — whether  for  food,  for  warmth,  or  for  seclusion — and 
how  the  travelling  is  connected  with  its  fixed  home. 
Birds  have  not  their  town  and  country  houses, — their  vil- 
las in  Italy,  and  shooting  boxes  in  Scotland.  The  coun- 
try in  which  they  build  their  nests  is  their  proper  home, 
— the  country,  that  is  to  say,  in  which  they  pass  the 
spring  and  summer.  Then  they  go  south  in  the  winter, 
for  food  and  warmth;  but  in  what  lines,  and  by  what 
stages  ? The  general  definition  of  a migrant  in  this  hemi- 
sphere is  a bird  that  goes  north  to  build  its  nest,  and 
south  for  the  winter;  but,  then,  the  one  essential  point  to 
know  about  it  is  the  breadth  and  latitude  of  the  zone  it 
properly  inhabits, — that  is  to  say,  in  which  it  builds  its 
nest ; next,  its  habit  of  life,  and  extent  and  line  of  south- 
ing in  the  winter  ; and,  finally,  its  manner  of  travelling. 

17.  Now,  here  is  this  entirely  familiar  bird,  the  robin. 
Quite  the  first  thing  that  strikes  me  about  it,  looking  at  it 
as  a painter,  is  the  small  effect  it  seems  to  have  had  on 
the  minds  of  the  southern  nations.  I trace  nothing  of  it 
definitely,  either  in  the  art  or  literature  of  Greece  or 
Italy.  I find,  even,  no  definite  name  for  it;  you  don’t 
know  if  Lesbia’s  passer  ” had  a red  breast,  or  a blue,  or 


love’s  metnte. 


19 


a brown.  And  yet^Mr.  Gould  says  it  is  abundant  in  all 
parts  of  Europe,  in  all  the  islands  of  the  Mediterranean, 
and  in  Madeira  and  the  Azores.  And  then  he  says — 
(now  notice  the  puzzle  of  this),  — In  many  parts  of  the 
Continent  it  is  a migrant,  and,  contrary  to  what  obtains 
with  us,  is  there  treated  as  a vagrant,  for  there  is  scarcely 
a country  across  the  water  in  which  it  is  not  shot  down 
and  eaten.” 

“ In  many  parts  of  the  Continent  it  is  a migrant.”  In 
what  parts — how  far — in  what  manner? 

18.  In  none  of  the  old  natural  history  books  can  I find 
any  account  of  the  robin  as  a traveller,  but  there  is,  for 
once,  some  sufficient  reason  for  their  reticence.  He  has  a 
curious  fancy  in  his  manner  of  travelling.  Of  all  birds, 
you  would  think  he  was  likely  to  do  it  in  the  cheerfullest 
way,  and  he  does  it  in  the  saddest.  Do  you  chance  to 
have  read,  in  the  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  how  fond  he 
was  of  taking  long  walks  in  the  night  and  alone  ? The 
robin,  en  voyage,  is  the  Charles  Dickens  of  birds.  He 
always  travels  in  the  night,  and  alone ; rests,  in  the  day, 
wherever  day  chances  to  find  him ; sings  a little,  and  pre- 
tends he  hasn’t  been  anywhere.  He  goes  as  far,  in  the 
winter,  as  the  north-west  of  Africa ; and  in  Lombardy, 
arrives  from  the  south  early  in  Mar(‘h ; but  does  not  stay 
long,  going  on  into  the  Alps,  where  he  prefers  wooded 
and  wild  districts.  So,  at  least,  says  my  Lombard  in- 
formant. 

I do  not  find  him  named  in  the  list  of  Cretan  birds ; 


20 


love’s  meinie. 


but  even  if  often  seen,  his  dim  red  breast  was  little  likely? 
to  make  much  impression  on  the  Greeks,  who  knew  the 
flamingo,  and  had  made  it,  under  the  name  of  Phoenix  or 
Phoeiiicopterus,  the  centre  of  their  myths  of  scarlet  birds. 
They  broadly  embraced  the  general  aspect  of  the  smaller 
and  more  obscure  species,  under  the  term  which, 

as  I understand  their  use  of  it,  exactly  implies  the  in- 
describable silky  brown,  the  groundwork  of  all  other 
colour  in  so  many  small  birds,  which  is  indistinct  among 
green  leaves,  and  absolutely  identifies  itself  with  dead 
ones,  or  with  mossy  stems. 

19.  I think  I show  it  you  more  accurately  in  the  robin’s 
back  than  I could  in  any  other  bird ; its  mode  of  tran- 
sition into  more  brilliant  colour  is,  in  him,  elementarily 
simple ; and  although  there  is  nothing,  or  rather  because 
there  is  nothing,  in  his  plumage,  of  interest  like  that  of 
tropical  birds,  or  even  of  our  own  game-birds,  I think  it 
will  be  desirable  for  you  to  learn  first  from  the  breast 
of  the  robin  what  a feather  is.  Once  knowing  that, 
thoroughly^  we  can  further  learn  from  the  swallow  what 
a wing  is ; from  the  chough  what  a beak  is ; and  from  the 
falcon  what  a claw  is. 

I must  take  care,  however,  in  neither  of  these  last  two 
particulars,  to  do  injustice  to  our  little  English  friend 
here ; and  before  we  come  to  his  feathers,  must  ask  you 
to  look  at  his  bill  and  his  feet. 

20.  1 do  not  think  it  is  distinctly  enough  felt  by  us  that 
the  beak  of  a bird  is  not  only  its  mouth,  but  its  hand,  or 


love's  MEESriE. 


21 


rather  its  two  hands.  For,  as  its  arms  and  hands  are 
turned  into  wings,  all  it  has  to  depend  upon,  in  eco- 
nomical and  practical  life,  is  its  beak.  The  beak,  there- 
fore, is  at  once  its  sword,  its  carpenter’s  tool-box,  and  its 
dressing-case;  partly  also  its  musical  instrument;  all  this 
l)esides  its  function  of  seizing  and  preparing  the  food,  in 
which  functions  alone  it  has  to  be  a trap,  carving-knife, 
and  teeth,  all  in  one. 

21.  It  is  this  need  of  the  beak’s  being  a mechanical 
tool  which  chiefly  regulates  the  form  of  a bird’s  face,  as 
opposed  to  a four-footed  animal’s.  If  the  question  of 
food  were  the  only  one,  we  might  wonder  why  there  were 
not  more  four-footed  creatures  living  on  seeds  than  there 
are ; or  why  those  that  do — field-mice  and  the  like — ^have 
not  beaks  instead  of  teeth.  But  the  fact  is  that  a bird’s 
beak  is  by  no  means  a perfect  eating  or  food- seizing 
instrument.  A squirrel  is  far  more  dexterous  with  a nut 
than  a cockatoo  ; and  a dog  manages  a bone  incom- 
parably better  than  an  eagle.  But  the  beak  has  to  do  so 
much  more  ! Pruning  feathers,  building  nests,  and  the 
incessant  discipline  in  military  arts,  are  all  to  be  thought 
of,  as  much  as  feeding. 

Soldiership,  especially,  is  a much  more  imperious  neces- 
sity among  birds  than  quadrupeds.  Neither  lions  nor 
wolves  habitually  use  claws  or  teeth  in  contest  with  their 
own  species ; but  birds,  for  their  partners,  their  nests, 
their  hunting-grounds,  and  their  personal  dignity,  are 
nearly  always  in  contention  ; their  courage  is  unequalled 


22 


love’s  meinie. 


by  that  of  any  other  race  of  animals  capable  of  compre- 
hending danger;  and  their  pertinacity  and  endurance 
'have,  in  all  ages,  made  them  an  example  to  the  brave, 
and  an  amusement  to  the  base,  among  mankind. 

22.  Nevertlieless,  since  as  sword,  as  trow^el,  or  as  pocket- 
comb,  the  beak  of  the  bird  has  to  be  pointed,  the  collec- 
tion of  seeds  may  be  conveniently  entrusted  to  this 
otherwise  penetrative  instrument,  and  such  food  as  can 
only  be  obtained  by  probing  crevices,  splitting  open 
fissures,  or  neatly  and  minutely  picking  things  up,  is 
allotted,  pre-eminently,  to  the  bird  species. 

The  food  of  the  robin,  as  you  know,  is  very  miscel- 
laneous. Linnseus  says  .of  the  Swedish  one,  that  it  is 
delectatus  euonymi  baccis,” — delighted  with  dogwood 
berries,’’ — the  dogwood  growing  abundantly  in  Sweden,  as 
once  in  Forfarshire,  where  it  grew,  though  only  a bush 
usually  in  the  south,  with  trunks  a foot  dr  eighteen  inches 
in  diameter,  and  the  tree  thirty  feet  high.  But  the 
Swedish  robin’s  taste  for  its  berries  is  to  be  noted  by  you, 
because,  first,  the  dogwood  berry  is  commonly  said  to  be 
so  bitter  that  it  is  not  eaten  by  birds  (Loudon,  ^^Arbo- 
retum,” ii.,  497,  1.) ; and,  secondly,  because  it  is  a pretty 
coincidence  that  this  most  familiar  of  household  birds 
should  feed  fondly  from  the  tree  which  gives  the  house- 
wife her  spindle, — the  proper  name  of  the  dogwood  in 
English,  French,  and  German  being  alike  “ Spindle-tree.” 
It  feeds,  however,  with  us,  certainly,  most  on  worms  and 
insects.  I am  not  sure  how  far  the  following  account  of 


love’s  meinib. 


23 


its  mode  of  dressing  its  dinners  may  be  depended  on : I 
take  it  from  an  old  book  on  Natural  History,  but  find  it, 
more  or  less,  confirmed  by  others : “ It  takes  a worm  by 
one  extremity  in  its  beak,  and  beats  it  on  the  ground  till 
the  inner  part  comes  away.  Then  seizing  it  in  a similar 
maimer  by  the  other  end,  it  entirely  cleanses  the  outer 
part,  which  alone  it  eats.” 

One’s  first  impression  is  that  this  must  be  a singularly 
unpleasant  operation  for  the  worm,  however  fastidiously 
delicate  and  exemplary  in  the  robin.  But  I suppose  the 
real  meaning  is,  that  as  a worm  lives  by  passing  earth 
through  its  body,  the  robin  merely  compels  it  to  quit  this 
— not  ill-gotten,  indeed,  but  now  quite  unnecessary — 
wealth.  We  human  creatures,  who  have  lived  the  lives  of 
worms,  collecting  dust,  are  served  by  Death  in  exactly  the 
same  manner. 

23.  You  will  find  that  the  robin’s  beak,  then,  is  a very 
prettily  representative  one  of  general  bird  power.  As  a 
weapon,  it  is  very  formidable  indeed  ; he  can  kill  an  ad- 
versary of  his  own  kind  with  one  blow  of  it  in  the  throat ; 
and  is  so  pugnacious,  ‘‘  valde  pugnax,”  says  Linnaeus,  “ ut 
non  una  arbor  duos  capiat  erithacos,” — “no  single  tree 
can  hold  two  cock-robins;”  and  for  precision  of  seizure, 
the  little  fiat  hook  at  the  end  of  the  upper  mandible  is 
one  of  the  most  delicately  formed  points  of  forceps  which 
you  can  find  among  the  grain  eaters.  But  I pass  to  one 
of  his  more  special  perfections. 

24.  He  is  very  notable  in  the  exquisite  silence  and  j^re- 


24 


LOVERS  MEINIE. 


cision  oi  Jiis  movements,  as  opposed  to  birds  who  either 
creak  in  flying,  or  waddle  in  walking.  Always  quiet,” 
says  Gould,  ^ for  the  silkiness,  of  his  plumage  renders  his 
movements  noiseless,  and  the  rustling  of  his  wings  is 
never  heard,  any  more  than  his  tread  on  earth,  over  which 
he  bounds  with  amazing  sprightliness.”  You  know  how 
much  importance  I have  always  given,  among  the  fine 
arts,  to  good  dancing.  If  you  think  of  it,  you  will  find 
one  of  the  robin’s  very  chief  ingratiatory  faculties  is  his 
dainty  and  delicate  movement, — his  footing  it  featly  here 
and  there.  Whatever  prettiness  there  may  be  in  his  red 
breast,  at  his  brightest  he  can  always  be  outshone  by  a 
brickbat.  But  if  he  is  rationally  proud  of  anything  about 
him,  I should  think  a robin  must  be  proud  of  his  legs. 
Hundreds  of  birds  have  longer  and  more  imposing  ones — 
but  for  ‘^eal  neatness,  finish,  and  precision  of  action,  com- 
mend me  to  his  fine  little  ankles,  and  fine  little  feet  ; this 
long  stilted  process,  as  you  know,  corresponding  to  our 
ankle-bone.  Commend  me,  I say,  to  the  robin  for  use  of 
his  ankles — he  is,  of  all  birds,  the  pre-eminent  and  char- 
acteristic Hopper ; none  other  so  light,  so  pert,  or  so 
swift. 

25.  We  must  not,  however,  give  too  much  credit  to  his 
legs  in  this  matter.  A robin’s  hop  is  half  a flight ; he 
hops,  very  essentially,  with  wings  and  tail,  as  well  as  with 
his  feet,  and  the  exquisitely  rapid  opening  and  quivering 
of  the  tail-feathers  certainly  give  half  the  force  to  his 
leap.  is  in  this  action  that  he  is  put  among  the  mota- 


LOVE  S MEINIE. 


26 


cillae,  or  wagtails;  but  the  ornithologists  have  no  real 
business  to  put  him  among  them.  The  swing  of  the  long 
tail-feathers  in  the  true  wagtail  is  entirely  consequent  on 
its  motion,  not  impulsive  of  it — the  tremulous  shake  is 
after  alighting.  But  the  robin  leaps  with  wing,  tail,  and 
foot,  all  in  time,  and  all  helping  each  other.  Leaps,  I 
say ; and  you  check  at  the  word ; and  ought  to  check : 
you  look  at  a bird  hopping,  and  the  motion  is  so  much  a 
matter  of  course,  you  never  think  how  it  is  done.  But 
do  you  think  you  would  find  it  easy  to  hop  like  a robin  if 
you  had  two — all  but  wooden — legs,  like  this  ? 

26.  I have  looked  wholly  in  vain  through  all  my  books 
on  birds,  to  find  some  account  of  the  muscles  it  uses  in 
hopping,  and  of  the  part  of  the  toes  with  which  the  spring 
is  given.  I must  leave  you  to  find  out  that  for  yourselves ; 
it  is  a little  bit  of  anatomy  which  I think  it  highly  desira- 
ble for  you  to  know,  but  wdiich  it  is  not  my  basiness  to 
teach  you.  Only  observe,  this  is  the  point  to  be  made 
out.  You  leap  yourselves,  with  the  toe  and  ball  of  the 
foot;  but,  in  that  power  of  leaping,  you  lose  the  faculty 
of  grasp ; on  the  contrary,  with  your  hands,  you  grasp  as 
a bird  with  its  feet.  But  you  cannot  hop  on  your  hands. 
A cat,  a leopard,  and  a monkey,  leap  or  grasp  with  equal 
ease ; but  the  action  of  their  paws  in  leaping  is,  I ima- 
gine, from  the  fieshy  ball  of  the  foot;  while  in  the  bird, 
(Laracteristically  jafiylrcovv^y  this  fieshy  ball  is  reduced  to 
a boss  or  series  of  bosses,  and  the  nails  are  elongated 
into  sickles  or  horns  ; nor  does  the  springing  power  seem 


26 


love’s  medoe. 


to  depend  on  the  development  of  the  bosses.  -They  are 
far  more  developed  in  an  eagle  than  a robin ; but  you 
know  how  unpardonably  and  preposterously  awkward  an 
eagle  is  when  he  hops.  When  they  are  most  of  all  devel- 
oped, the  bird  walks,  runs,  and  digs  well,  but  leaps  badly. 

27.  I have  no  time  to  speak  of  the  various  forms  of  the 
ankle  itself,  or  of  the  scales  of  armour,  more  apparent 
than  real,  by  which  the  foot  and  ankle  are  protected. 
The  use  of  this  lecture  is  not  either  to  describe  or  to 
exhibit  these  varieties  to  you,  but  so  to  awaken  your  atten- 
tion to  the  real  points  of  character,  that,  when  you  have  a 
bird’s  foot  to  draw,  ydu  may  do  so  with  intelligence  and 
pleasure,  knowing  whether  you  want  to  express  force, 
grasp,  or  firm  ground  pressure,  or  dexterity  and  tact  in 
motion.  And  as  the  actions  of  the  foot  and  the  hand  in 
man  are  made  by  every  great  painter  perfectly  expressive 
of  the  character  of  mind,  so  the  expressions  of  rapacity, 
cruelty,  or  force  of  seizure,  in  the  harpy,  the  gryphon,  and 
the  hooked  and  clawed  evil  spirits  of  early  religious  art, 
can  only  be  felt  by  extreme  attention  to  the  original  form. 

28.  And  now  I return  to  our  main  question,  for  the 
robin’s  breast  to  answer,  What  is  a feather? ” You  know 
something  about  it  already;  that  it  is  composed  of  a 
qinll,  with  its  lateral  filaments,  termiiiating  generally, 
more  or  less,  in  a point ; that  these  extremities  of  the 
quills,  lying  over  each  other  like  the  tiles  of  a house, 
allow  the  wind  and  rain  to  pass  over  them  with  the  least 
possible  resistance,  and  form  a protection  alike  from  the 


love’s  meiote. 


27 


heat  and  the  cold  ; which,  in  structure  much  resembling 
the  scale-armour  assumed  by  man  for  very  different  ob- 
jects, is,  in  fact,  intermediate,  exactly,  between  .the  fur  of 
beasts  and  the  scales  of  fishes ; having  the  minute  division 
of  the  one,  and  the  armour-like  symmetry  and  succession 
of  the  other. 

29.  Not  merely  symmetry,  observe,  but  extreme  fiatness. 
Feathers  are  smoothed  down,  as  a field  of  corn  by  wind 
with  rain  ; only  the  swathes  laid  in  beautiful  order.  They 
are  fur,  so  structurally  placed  as  to  imply,  and  submit 
to,  the  perpetually  swift  forward  motion.  In  fact,  I 
have  no  doubt  the  Darwinian  theory  on  the  subject  is  that 
the  feathers  of  birds  once  stuck  up  all  erect,  like  the 
bristles  of  a brush,  and  have  only  been  blown  fiat  by 
continual  fiying. 

Nay,  we  might  even  sufficiently  represent  the  general 
manner  of  conclusion  in  the  Darwinian  system  by  the 
statement  that  if  you  fasten  a hair^brush  to  a mill-wheel, 
with  the  handle  forward,  so  as  to  develop  itself  into  a 
neck  by  moving  always  in  the  same  direction,  and  within 
continual  hearing  of  a steam-whistle,  after  a certain  num- 
ber of  revolutions  the  hair-brush  will  fall  in  love  with  the 
whistle ; they  will  marry,  lay  an  egg,  and  the  produce 
will  be  a nightingale. 

30.  Whether,  however,  a hog’s  bristle  can  turn  into  a 
feather  or  not,  it  is  vital  that  you  should  know  the  present 
difference  between  them. 

The  scientific  people  will  tell  you  that  a feather  is  com- 


28 


love’s  meinib. 


posed  ot  three  parts — the  down,  the  laminae,  and  the 
shaft. 

But  the  common-sense  method  of  stating  the  matter  is 
that  a feather  is  composed  of  two  parts,  a shaft  with 
lateral  filaments.  For  the  greater  part  of  the  shaft’s 
length,  these  filaments  are  strong  and  nearly  straight, 
forming,  by  their  attachment,  a finely  warped  sail,  like 
that  of  a windmill.  But  towards  the  root  of  the  feather 
they  suddenly  become  weak,  and  confusedly  fiexible,  and 
form  the  close  down  which  immediately  protects  the 
bird’s  body. 

To  show  you  the  typical  arrangement  of  these  parts,  I 
choose,  as  I have  said,  the  robin  ; because,  both  in  his  power 
of  fiying,  and  in  his  colour,  he  is  a moderate  and  balanced 

Fig.  1. 

(Twice  the  size  of  reality.) 


a I A 


0^2 


bird ; — ^not  turned  into  nothing  but  wings,  like  a swallow, 
or  nothing  but  neck  and  tail,  like  a peacock.  And  first 


LOVERS  MEINIE. 


29 


for  his  living  power.  There  is  one  of  the  long  feathers 
of  robin’s  wing,  and  here  (Fig.  1)  the  analysis  of  its 
form. 

31.  First,  in  pure  outline  (a),  seen  from  above,  it  is 
very  nearly  a long  oval,  but  with  this  peculiarity,  that  it 
has,  as  it  were,  projecting  shoulders  2X  a \ and  a 1 
merely  desire  you  to  observe  this,  in  passing,  because  one 
usually  thinks  of  the  contour  as  sweeping  unbroken  from 
the  root  to  the  point.  I have  not  time  to-day  to  enter  on. 
any  discussion  of  the  reason  for  it,  which  will  appear 
when  we  examine  the  placing  of  the  wing-feathers  for 
their  stroke. 

Now,  I hope  you  are  getting  accustomed  to  the  general 
method  in  which  I give  you  the  analysis  of  all  forms — 
leaf,  or  feather,  or  shell,  or  limb.  First,  the  plan ; then 
the  profile  ; th^n  the  cross-section. 

I take  next,  the  profile  of  my  feather  (b.  Fig.  1), 
and  find  that  it  is  twisted  as  the  sail  of  a windmill  is, 
but  more  distinctly,  so  that  you  can  always  see  the  upper 
surface  of  the  feather  at  its  root,  and  the  under  at  its 
end.  Every  primary  wing-feather,  in  the  fine  fiyers,  is 
thus  twisted ; and  is  best  described  as  a sail  striking  with 
the  power  of  a scymitar,  but  with  the  fiat  instead  of  the 
edge. 

32.  Further,  you  remember  that  on  the  edges  of  the 
broad  side  of  feathers  you  find  always  a series  of  undula- 
tions, irregularly  sequent,  and  lapping  over  each  other 
ake  waves  on  sand.  You  might  at  first  imagine  that  this 


30 


love’s  meiotb. 


appearance  was  owing  to  a slight  ruffling  or  disorder  of 
the  filaments ; but  it  is  entirely  normal,  and,  I doubt  not, 
so  constructed,  in  order  to  ensure  a redundance  of  ma- 
terial in  the  plume,  so  that  no  accident  or  pressure  from 
wind  may  leave  a gap  anywhere.  How  this  redundance 
is  obtained  you  will  see  in  a moment  by  bending  any  fea- 
ther the  wrong  way.  Bend,  for  instance,  this  plume,  b, 

Fig.  2. 


A 


Fig.  2,  into  tlie  reversed  curve,  a.  Fig.  2;  then  all  the 
filaments  of  the  plume  become  perfectly  even,  and  there 
are  no  waves  at  the  edge.  But  let  the  plume  return  into 
its  proper  form,  b,  and  the  tissue  being  now  contracted  in- 
to a smaller  space,  the  edge  waves  are  formed  in  it 
instantly. 

Flitherto,  I have  been  speaking  only  of  the  filaments 
arranged  for  the  strength  and  continuity  of  the  energetic 
plume ; they  are  entirely  different  when  they  are  set 


love’s  MErNIE. 


31 


together  for  decoration  instead  of  force.  After  the 
feather  of  the  robin’s  wing,  let  ns  examine  one  from  his 
breast. 

33.  I said,  just  now,  he  might  be  at  once  outshone  by  a 
brickbat.  Indeed,  the  day  before  yesterday,  sleeping  at 
Lichfield,  and  seeing,  the  first  thing  when  I woke  in  the 
morning,  (for  I never  put  down  the  blinds  of  my  bedroom 
windows,)  the  not  uncommon  sight  in  an  English  country 
town  of  an  entire  house-front  of  very  neat,  and  very  flat, 
and  very  red  bricks,  with  very  exactly  squared  square 
windows  in  it ; and  not  feeling  myself  in  anywise  grati- 
fied or  improved  by  the  spectacle,  I was  thinking  how  in 
this,  as  in  all  other  good,  the  too  much  destroyed  all.  Tlie 
breadth  of  a robin’s  breast  in  brick-red  is  delicious,  but  a 
whole  house-front  of  brick-red  as  vivid,  is  alarming.  And 
yet  one  cannot  generalize  even  that  trite  moral  with  any 
safety — for  infinite  breadth  of  green  is  delightful,  how- 
ever green  ; and  of  sea  or  sky,  however  blue. 

You  must  note,  however,  that  the  robin’s  charm  is 
greatly  helped  by  the  pretty  space  of  grey  plumage 
which  separates  the  red  from  the  brown  back,  and  sets  it 
off  to  its  best  advantage.  There  is  no  great  brilliancy 
in  it,  even  so  relieved ; only  the  finish  of  it  is  exquisite. 

34.  If  you  separate  a single  feather,  you  will  find  it 
more  like  a transparent  hollow  shell  than  a feather  (so 
delicately  rounded  the  surface  of  it), — grey  at  the  root, 
where  the  down  is, — tinged,  and  only  tinged,  with  red  at 
the  part  that  o^^^erlaps  and  is  visible ; so  that,  when  three 


3^2 


love's  meinie. 


or  four  more  feathers  have  overlapped  it  again,  all  together, 
with  their  joined  red,  are  just  enough  to  give  the  colour 
determined  upon,  each  of  them  contributing  a tinge. 
There  are  about  thirty  of  these  glowing  filaments  on  each 
side,  (the  whole  being  no  larger  across  than  a well-grown 
currant,)  and  each  of  these  is  itself  another  exquisite  feath- 
er, with  central  quill  and  lateral  webs,  whose  filaments  are 
not  to  be  counted. 

The  extremity  of  these  breast  plumes  parts  slightly  into 
two,  as  you  see  in  the  peacock’s,  and  many  other  such  de- 
corative ones.  The  transition  from  the  entirely  leaf-like 
shape  of  the  active  plume,  with  its  oblique  point,  to  the 
more  or  less  symmetrical  dualism  of  the  decorative  plume, 
corresponds  with  the  change  from  the  pointed  green 
leaf  to  the  dual,  or  heart-shaped,  petal  of  many  fiowers. 
[ shall  return  to  this  part  of  our  subject,  having  given 
you,  I believe,  enough  of  detail  for  the  present. 

85.  I have  said  nothing  to-day  of  the  mythology  of  the 
bird,  though  I told  you  that  would  always  be,  for  us,  the 
most  important  part  of  its  natural  history.  But  I am 
obliged,  sometimes,  to  take  what  we  immediately  want, 
rather  than  what,  ultimately,  we  shall  need  chiefiy.  In 
the  second  place,  you  probably,  most  of  you,  know  moi*e 
of  the  mythology  of  the  robin  than  I do,  for  the  stories 
about  it  are  all  northern,  and  I know  scarcely  any  myths 
but  the  Italian  and  Greek.  You  will  find  under  the 
name  “ Robin,”  in  Miss  Yonge’s  exhaustive  and  admirable 
“ History  of  Christian  Names,”  the  various  titles  of  hon- 


love’s  meinie. 


33 


our  and  endearment  connected  with  him,  and  with  the 
general  idea  of  redness, — from  the  bishop  called  Bright 
Bed  Fame,”  who  founded  the  first  great  Christian  church 
on  the  Eliine,  (I  am  afraid  of  your  thinking  I mean  a 
pun,  in  connection  with  robins,  if  I tell  you  the  locality 
of  it,)  down  through  the  Floods,  and  Boys,  and  Grays,  to 
Bobin  Goodfellow,  and  Spenser’s  “ Hobbinol,”  and  our 
modern  “ Hob,” — joining  on  to  the  “goblin,”  which  comes 
from  the  old  Greek  K6/3a\o<;.  But  I cannot  let  you  go 
without  asking  you  to  compare  the  English  and  French 
feeling  about  small  birds,  in  Chaucer’s  time,  with  our  own 
on  the  same  subject.  I say  English  and  French,  because 
the  original  French  of  the  Bomance  of  the  Bose  shows 
more  affection  for  birds  than  even  Chaucer’s  translation, 
passionate  as  he  is,  always,  in  love  for  any  one  of  his  little 
^ winged  brothers  or  sisters.  Look,  however,  either  in  the 
French  or  English,  at  the  description  of  the  coming  of 
the  God  of  Love,  leading  his  carol-dance,  in  the  garden  o" 
the  Bose. 

His  dress  is  embroidered  with  figures  of  fiowers  and  of 
beasts  ; but  about  him  fiy  the  living  birds.  The  French 
is : 

II  etoit  tout  convert  d’oisiaulx 
De  rossignols  et  de  papegaux 
De  calendre,  et  de  mesangel. 
n semblait  que  ce  fut  une  angle 
Qui  fuz  tout  droit  venuz  du  ciel 

36.  There  are  several  points  of  philology  in  this  transi- 
tional French,  and  in  Chaucer’s  translation,  which  it  is 
2* 


34 


love’s  MEESriE. 


well  worth  your  patience  to  observe.  The  monkish  Latin 
“ angelus,”  you  see,  is  passing  through  the  very  unpoetical 
form  “ angle,”  into  “ ange  ; ” but,  in  order  to  get  a rhyme 
with  it  in  that  angular  form,  the  French  troubadour  ex- 
pands the  bird’s  name,  “ mesange,”  quite  arbitrarily,  into 
“ inesangel.”  Then  Chaucer,  not  liking  the  “ mes  ” at  the 
beginning  of  the  word,  changes  that  unscrupulously  into 
“ arch ; ” and  gathers  in,  though  too  shortly,  a lovely  bit 
from  another  place  about  the  nightingales  flying  so  close 
round  Love’s  head  that  they  strike  some  of  the  leaves  off 
his  crown  of  roses ; so  that  the  English  runs  thus : 

But  nightingales,  a full  great  rout 
That  flien  over  his  head  about, 

The  leaves  felden  as  they  flien 
And  he  was  all  with  birds  wrien. 

With  popiujay,  with  nightingale, 

With  chelaundre,  and  with  wodewale, 

With  finch,  with  lark,  and  with  archangel. 

He  seemed  as  he  were  an  angell, 

' That  down  were  comen  from  Heaven  clear. 

X0W5  when  I first  read  this  bit  of  Chaucer,  without  re- 
ferring to  the  original,  I was  greatly  delighted  to  find 
that  there  was  a bird  in  his  time  called  an  archangel,  and 
set  to  work,  with  brightly  hopeful  industry,  to  find  out 
what  it  was.  1 was  a little  discomfited  by  finding  that 
in  old  botany  the  word  only  meant  “ dead-nettle,”  but 
was  still  sanguine  about  my  bird,  till  I found  the  French 
form  descend,  as  you  have  seen,  into  a mesangel,  and 
finally  into  mesange,  which  is  a provincialism  from  ^eiov 


love’s  MEmiE. 


35 


and  means,  the  smallest  of  birds — or,  specially  here, — a 
titmouse.  I have  seldom  had  a less  expected  or  more 
ignominious  fall  from  the  clouds. 

37.  The  other  birds,  named  here  and  in  the  previous 
description  of  the  garden,  are  introduced,  as  far  as  1 can 
judge,  nearly  at  random,  and  with  no  precision  of  imagina- 
tion like  that  of  Aristophanes ; but  with  a sweet  childish 
delight  in  crowding  as  many  birds  as  possible  into  the 
smallest  space.  The  popinjay  is  always  prominent ; and  I 
want  some  of  you  to  help  me  (for  I have  not  time  at  pres- 
ent for  the  chase)  in  hunting  the  parrot  down  on  his  first 
appearance  in  Europe.  Just  at  this  particular  time  he  con- 
tested favour  even  with  the  falcon ; and  I think  it  a piece 
of  good  fortune  that  I chanced  to  draw  for  you,  thinking 
only  of  its  brilliant  colour,  the  popinjay,  which  Carpaccio 
allows  to  be  present  on  the  grave  occasion  of  St.  George’s 
baptizing  the  princess  and  her  father. 

38.  And,  indeed,  as  soon  as  the  Christian  poets  begin 
to  speak  of  the  singing  of  the  birds,  they  show  themselves 
in  quite  a different  mood  from  any  that  ever  occurs  to  a 
Greek.  Aristophanes,  with  infinitely  more  skill,  de- 
scribes, and  partly  imitates,  the  singing  of  the  nightin- 
gale ; but  simply  as  beautiful  sound.  It  fills  the  thick 
ets  with  honey;  ” and  if  in  the  often-quoted — just  because 
it  is  not  characteristic  of  Greek  literature — passage 
of  the  Coloneus,  a deeper  sentiment  is  shown,  that  feel- 
ing is  dependent  on  association  of  the  bird-voices  with 
deeply  pathetic  circumstances.  But  this  troubadour 


36 


LOVE  S MEINIB. 


finds  his  heart  in  heaven  by  the  power  of  the  sinpjing 
only 

Trop  parfoisaient  beau  servise 
Ciz  oiseUes  que  je  vous  devise. 

II  cbantaient  un  chant  ytel 
Com  f assent  angle  esperitel. 

We  want  a moment  more  of  word-chasing  to  enjoy  this. 

Oiseau,”  as  you  know,  comes  from  “ avis  ; ” but  it  had 
at  this  time  got  oisel”  for  its  singular  number,  of  which 
the  terminating  sel  ” confused  itself  with  the  “ selle,” 
from  “ancilla”  in  domisella  and  demoiselle;  and  the 
feminine  form  “ oiselle  ” thus  snatched  for  itself  some  of 
the  delightfulness  belonging  to  the  title  of  a young  lady. 
Then  note  that  “ esperitel  ” does  not  here  mean  merely 
spiritual,  (because  all  angels  are  spiritual,)  but  an  angle 
esperitel  ” is  an  angel  of  the  air.  So  that,  in  English,  we 
could  only  express  the  meaning  in  some  such  fashion  as 
this : — 

They  perfected  all  their  service  of  Love, 

These  maiden  birds  that  I tell  you  of. 

They  sang  such  a song,  so  finished-fair, 

As  if  they  were  angels,  born  of  the  air. 

39.  Such  were  the  fancies,  then,  and  the  scenes,  in 
which  Englishmen  took  delight  in  Chaucer’s  time.  Eng- 
land was  then  a simple  country  ; we  boasted,  for  the  best 
kind  of  riches,  our  birds  and  trees,  and  our  wives  and 
children.  We  have  now  grown  to  be  a rich  one ; and  our 
first  pleasure  is  in  shooting  our  birds ; but  it  has  become 
too  expensive  for  us  to  keep  our  trees.  Lord  Derby, 


love’s  MEINIE. 


87 


whose  crest  is  the  eagle  and  child — ^you  will  find  the 
northern  name  for  it,  the  bird  and  bantling,  made  classi- 
cal by  Scott — is  the  first  to  propose  that  wood-birds 
should  have  no  more  nests.  We  must  cut  down  all  our 
trees,  he  says,  that  we  may  effectively  use  the  steam- 
plough  ; and  the  effect  of  the  steam-plough,  I find  by  a 
recent  article  in  the  “ Cornhill  Magazine,”  is  that  an  Eng- 
lish labourer  must  not  any  more  have  a nest,  nor  bant- 
lings, neither ; but  may  only  expect  to  get  on  prosperous- 
ly in  life,  if  he  be  perfectly  skilful,  sober,  and  honest, 
and  dispenses,  at  least  until  he  is  forty-five,  with  the 
“ luxury  of  marriage.” 

40.  Gentlemen,  you  may  perhaps  have  heard  me 
blamed  for  making  no  effort  here  to  teach  in  the  artizans’ 
schools.  But  I can  only  say  that,  since  the  future  life  of 
the  English  labourer  or  artizan  (summing  the  benefits  to 
him  of  recent  philosophy  and  economy)  is  to  be  passed  in 
a country  without  angels  and  without  birds,  without  pray- 
ers and  without  songs,  without  trees  and  without  flowers, 
in  a state  of  exemplary  sobriety,  and  (extending  the 
Catholic  celibacy  of  the  clergy  into  celibacy  of  the  laity) 
in  a state  of  dispensation  with  the  luxury  of  marriage,  I 
do  not  believe  he  will  derive  either  profit  or  entertain- 
ment from  lectures  on  the  Fine  Arts. 


38 


love’s  metnie. 


LECTURE  II. 

THE  SWALLOW. 

41.  We  are  to-day  to  take  note  o£  the  form  of  a crea- 
ture which  gives  us  a singular  example  of  the  unity  of 
what  artists  call  beauty,  with  the  fineness  of  mechanical 
structure,  often  mistaken  for  it.  You  cannot  but  have 
noticed  how  little,  during  the  years  of  my  past  professor- 
ship, I have  introduced  any  questions  as  to  the  nature  of 
beauty.  1 avoided  them,  partly  because  they  are  treated 
of  at  length  in  my  books  ; and  partly  because  they  are, 
in  the  last  degree,  unpractical.  We  are  born  to  like  or 
dislike  certain  aspects  of  things ; nor  could  I,  by  any 
arguments,  alter  the  defined  tastes  which  you  received  at 
your  birth,  and  which  the  surrounding  circumstances  of 
life  have  enforced,  without  any  possibility  of  your  volun- 
tary resistance  to  them.  And  the  result  of  those  sur- 
rounding circumstances,  to-day,  is  that  most  English 
youths  would  have  more  pleasure  in  looking  at  a loco- 
motive than  at  a swallow ; and  that  many  English  phi- 
losophers would  suppose  the  pleasure  so  received  to  be 
through  a new  sense  of  beauty.  But  the  meaning  of  the 
word  beauty  ” in  the  fine  arts,  and  in  classical  literature, 
is  properly  restricted  to  those  very  qualities  in  which 


love’s  meinie. 


39 


the  locomotion  of  a swallow  differs  from  that  of  an 
engine. 

42.  Not  only  from  that  of  an  engine ; but  also  fi’om 
that  of  animals  in  whose  members  the  mechanism  is  so 
complex  as  to  give  them  a resemblance  to  engines.  The 
dart  of  the  common  honse-fly,  for  instance,  in  full 
strength,  is  a more  wonderful  movement  than  that  of  a 
swallow.  The  mechanism  of  it  is  not  only  more  minute, 
but  the  swiftness  of  the  action  so  much  greater,  that  the 
vibration  of  the  wing  is  invisible.  But  though  a school- 
boy might  prefer  the  locomotive  to  the  swallow,  he  would 
not  carry  his  admiration  of  finely  mechanical  velocity 
into  unqualified  sympathy  with  the  workmanship  of  the 
God  of  Ekron  ; and  would  generally  suppose  that  flies 
were  made  only  to  be  food  for  the  more  graceful  fly- 
catcher,— whose  finer  grace  you  will  discover,  upon  reflec- 
tion, to  be  owing  to  the  very  moderation  and  simplicity 
of  its  structure,  and  to  the  subduing  of  that  infinitude  of 
joints,  claws,  tissues,  veins,  and  fibres  which  inconceivably 
vibrate  in  the  microscopic  creature’s  motion,  to  a quite 
intelligible  and  simple  balance  of  rounded  body  upon 
edged  plume,  maintained  not  without  visible,  and  some- 
times fatigued,  exertion,  and  raising  the  lower  creature 
into  fellowship  with  the  volition  and  the  virtue  of 
humanity. 


* I call  it  BO  because  the  members  and  action  of  it  cannot  be  seen 
with  the  unaided  eye. 


40 


love’s  meinie. 


43.  With  the  virtue,  I say,  in  an  exceedingly  qualified 
sense ; meaning  rather  the  strength  and  art  displayed  in 
overcoming  difficulties,  than  any  distinct  morality  of  dis- 
position. The  bird  has  tindly  and  homely  qualities  ; but 
its  principal  “ virtue,”  for  us,  is  its  being  an  incarnate 
voracity,  and  that  it  moves  as  a consuming  and  cleansing 
power.  You  sometimes  hear  it  said  of  a humane  person 
that  he  would  not  kill  a fly:  from  700  to  1000  flies  a 
day  are  a moderate  allowance  for  a baby  swallow. 

44.  Perhaps,  as  I say  this,  it  may  occur  to  some  of  you 
to  think,  for  the  flrst  time,  of  the  reason  of  the  bird’s 
name.  For  it  is  very  interesting,  as  a piece  of  language 
study,  to  consider  the  different  power  on  our  minds, — nay 
the  different  sweetness  to  the  ear, — which,  from  associa- 
tion, these  same  two  syllables  receive,  when  we  read  them 
as  a noun,  or  as  a verb.  Also,  the  word  is  a curious 
instance  of  the  traps  which  are  continually  open  for  rash 
etymologists.  At  flrst,  nothing  would  appear  more 
natural  than  that  the  name  should  have  been  given  to  the 
bird  from  its  reckless  function  of  devouring.  But  if  you 
look  to  your  Johnson,  you  will  find,  to  your  better  satis- 
faction, that  the  name  means  bird  of  porticos,”  or 
porches,  from  the  Gothic  “ swale  ; ” “ subdivale,” — so  that 
it  goes  back  in  thought  as  far  as  Yirgil’s,  “ Et  nunc 
porticibus  vacuis,  nunc  humida  circum,  stagna  sonat.” 
Notice,  in  passing,  how  a simile  of  Yirgil’s,  or  any  other 
great  master’s,  will  probably  tell  in  two  or  more  ways  at 
once.  Juturna  is  compared  to  the  swallow,  not  merely  as 


love’s  MEINtE. 


41 


winding  and  turning  swiftly  in  her  chariot,  but  as  being  a 
water-nymph  by  birth, — “ Stagnis  quae,  fluminibusque 
sonoris,  praesidet.”  How  many  different  creatures  in  one 
the  swallow  is  by  birth,  as  a Yirgilian  simile  is  many 
thoughts  in  one,  it  would  take  many  more  lectures  than 
one  to  show  you  clearly;  but  I will  indicate  them  with 
siic'h  rough  sketch  as  is  possible. 

45.  It  belongs,  as  most  of  you  know,  to  a family  of 
birds  called  Fissi-rostres,  or,  literally,  split-beaks.  Split 
heads  would  be  a better  term,  for  it  is  the  enormous 
width  of  month  and  power  of  gaping  which  the  epithet  is 
meant  to  express.  A dull  sermon,  for  instance,  makes 
half  the  congregation  “ fissi-rostres.”  The  bird,  however, 
is  most  vigilant  when  its  mouth  is  widest,  for  it  opens  as  a 
net  to  catch  whatever  comes  in  its  way, — hence  the 
French,  giving  the  whole  family  the  more  literal  name, 
“ Gobble-fiy  Gobe-mouche,  extend  the  term  to  the 
open-mouthed  and  too  acceptant  appearance  of  a simple- 
ton. 

46.  Partly  in  order  to  provide  for  this  width  of  mouth, 
but  more  for  the  advantage  in  flight,  the  head  of  the  swal- 
low is  rounded  into  a bullet  shape,  and  sunk  down  on  the 
shoulders,  with  no  neck  whatever  between,  so  as  to  give 
nearly  the  aspect  of  a conical  rifle  bullet  to  the  entire 
front  of  the  body ; and,  indeed,  the  bird  moves  more  like 
a bullet  than  an  arrow — dependent  on  a certain  impetus 
of  weight  rather  than  on  sharp  penetration  of  the  air.  I 
say  dependent  on,  but  I have  not  yet  been  able  to  trace 


42 


love’s  meinie. 


distinct  relation  between  the  shapes  of  birds  and  their 
powers  of  flight.  I suppose  the  form  of  the  body  is  first 
determined  by  the  general  habits  and  food,  and  that 
nature  can  make  any  form  she  chooses  volatile  ; only  one 
point  I think  is  always  notable,  that  a complete  master  of 
the  art  of  fiight  must  be  short-necked,  so  that  he  turns 
altogether,  if  he  turns  at  all.  You  don’t  expect  a swallow 
to  look  round  a corner  before  he  goes  round  it ; he  must 
take  his  chance.  The  main  point  is,  that  he  may  be  able 
to  stop  himself,  and  turn,  in  a moment. 

47.  The  stopping,  on  any  terms,  is  difiicult  enough  to 
understand  ; nor  less  so,  the  original  gaining  of  the  pace. 
We  always  think  of  flight  as  if  the  main  difficulty  of  it 
were  only  in  keeping  up  in  the  air ; — but  the  buoyancy  is 
conceivable  enough,  the  far  more  wonderful  matter  is  the 
getting  along.  You  find  it  hard  work  to  row  yourself  at 
anything  like  speed,  though  your  impulse-stroke  is  given 
in  a heavy  element,  and  your  return-stroke  in  a light  one. 
But  both  in  birds  and  fishes,  the  impelling  stroke  and  its 
return  are  in  the  same  element ; and  if,  for  the  bird,  that 
medium  yields  easily  to  its  impulse,  it  secedes  as  easily 
from  the  blow  that  gives  it.  And  if  you  think  what  an 
effort  you  make  to  leap  six  feet,  with  the  earth  for  a 
fulcrum,  the  dart  either  of  a trout  or  a swallow,  with  no 
fulcrum  but  the  water  and  air  they  penetrate,  will  seem  to 
you,  I think,  greatly  marvellous.  Yet  of  the  mode  in 
which  it  is  accomplished  you  will  as  yet  find  no  un- 
disputed account  in  any  book  on  natural  history,  and 


love's  meinie. 


43 


scarcely,  as  far  as  I know,  definite  notice  even  of  the  rate 
of  fiight.  What  do  you  suppose  it  is?  We  are  apt  to 
think  of  the  migration  of  a swallow,  as  we  should  our- 
selves of  a serious  journey.  How  long,  do  you  think,  it 
would  take  him,  if  he  fiew  uninterruptedly,  to  get  from 
here  to  Africa  ? 

48.  Michelet  gives  the  rate  of  his  flight  (at  full  speed, 
of  course,)  as  eighty  leagues  an  hour.  I find  no  more 
sound  authority ; but  do  not  doubt  his  approximate 
accuracy ; ^ still  how  curious  and  how  provoking  it  is  that 
neither  White  of  Selborne,  Bewick,  Yarrell,  nor  Gould, 
says  a word  about  this,  one  should  have  thought  the  most 
interesting,  power  of  the  bird.f 

Taking  Michelet’s  estimate — eighty  French  leagues, 
roughly  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  an  hour — we  have  a 
thousand  miles  in  four  hours.  That  is  to  say,  leaving 
Devonshire  after  an  early  breakfast,  he  could  be  in  Africa 
to  lunch. 

49.  He  could,  I say,  if  his  fiight  were  constant ; but 
though  there  is  much  inconsistency  in  the  accounts,  the 
sum  of  testimony  seems  definite  that  the  swallow  is  among 
the  most  fatiguable  of  birds.  When  the  weather  is 

* I wrote  this  some  time  ago,  and  the  endeavour  I have  since  made 
to  verify  statements  on  points  of  natural  history  which  I had  taken  on 
trust  have  given  me  reason  to  doubt  everybody’s  accuracy.  The 
ordinary  flight  of  the  swallow  does  not,  assuredly,  even  in  the  dashes, 
reach  anything  like  this  speed. 

f Incidentally  suggestive  sentences  occur  in  the  history  of  Selborne, 
but  its  author  never  comes  to  the  point,  in  this  case. 


love’s  meinie. 


/ 


hazy,”  (I  quote  Yarrell)  ^^they  will  alight  on  fishiug- 
boats  a league  or  two  from  land,  so  tired  that  when  any 
one  tries  to  catch  them,  they  can  scarcely  fly  from  one 
end  of  the  boat  to  the  other.” 

I have  no  time  to  read  to  you  the  interesting  evidence 
on  this  point  given  by  Yarrell,  but  only  that  of  the 
brother  of  White  of  Selborne,  at  Gibraltar.  “ My  brother 
lias  always  found,”  he  himself  writes,  that  some  of  his 
birds,  and  particularly  the  swallow  kind,  are  very  sparing 
of  their  pains  in  crossing  the  Mediterranean  ; for  when 
arrived  at  Gibraltar,  they  do  not  ^set  forth  their  airy 
caravan,  high  over  seas,’  but  scout  and  hurry  along  in 
little  detached  parties  of  six  or  seven  in  a company ; and 
sweeping  low,  just  over  the  surface  of  the  land  and  water, 
direct  their  course  to  the  opposite  continent  at  the  nar- 
rowest passage  they  can  find.” 

50.  You  will  observe,  however,  that  it  remains  an  open 
question  whether  this  fear  of  the  sea  may  not  be,  in  the 
swallow,  like  ours  of  the  desert.  The  commissariat  de- 
partment is  a serious  one  for  birds  that  eat  a thousand  flies 
a day  when  just  out  of  the  egg ; and  it  is  possible  that  the 
weariness  of  swallows  at  sea  may  depend  much  more  on 
fasting  than  flying.  Captain  (or  Admiral?)  Sir  Charles 
Wager  says  that  “ one  spring-time,  as  he  came  into  sound- 
ings  in  the  English  Channel,  a great  flock  of  swallows 
came  and  settled  on  all  his  rigging;  every  rope  was 
covered ; they  hung  on  one  another  like  a swarm  of  bees  ; 
even  the  decks  were  filled  with  them.  They  seemed 


lov:e’s  meinie. 


45 


almost  famished  and  spent,  and  were  only  feathers  and 
bone ; but,  being  recruited  with  a night’s  rest,  took  theii 
flight  in  the  morning.” 

51.  Now  I detain  you  on  this  point  somewhat,  because 
it  is  intimately  connected  with  a more  important  one.  I 
told  you  we  should  learn  from  the  swallow  what  a wing 
was.  Few  other  birds  approach  him  in  the  beauty  of  it, 
or  apparent  power.  And  yet,  after  all  this  care  taken 
about  it,  he  gets  tired  ; and  instead  of  flying,  as  we  should 
do  in  his  place,  all  over  the  world,  and  tasting  the  flavour 
of  the  midges  in  every  marsh  which  the  inflnitude  of 
human  folly  has  left  to  breed  gnats  instead  of  growing 
corn, — he  is  of  all  birds,  characteristically,  except  when 
he  absolutely  can’t  help  it,  the  stayer  at  home;  and  con- 
tentedly lodges  himself  and  his  family  in  an  old  chimney, 
when  he  might  be  flying  all  over  the  world. 

At  least  you  would  think,  if  he  built  in  an  English 
chimney  this  year,  he  would  build  in  a French  one  next. 
But  no.  Michelet  prettily  says  of  him,  He  is  the  bird 
of  return.”  If  you  will  only  treat  him  kindly,  year  after 
year,  he  comes  back  to  the  same  niche,  and  to  the  same 
hearth,  for  his  nest. 

To  the  same  niche;  and  builds  himself  an  opaque 
walled  house  within  that.  Think  of  this  a little,  as  if  you 
heard  of  it  for  the  first  time. 

52.  Suppose  you  had  never  seen  a swallow;  but  that  its 
general  habit  of  life  had  been  described  to  you,  and  you 
had  been  asked,  how  you  thought  such  a bird  would  build 


46 


loye’s  meinib. 


its  nest.  A creature,  observe,  whose  life  is  to  be  passed 
in  the  air ; whose  beak  and  throat  are  shaped  with  the 
fineness  of  a net  for  the  catching  of  gnats ; and  whose 
feet,  in  the  most  perfect  of  the  species,  are  so  feeble  that 
it  is  called  the  Footless  Swallow,  and  cannot  stand  a 
moment  on  the  ground  with  comfort.  Of  all  land  birds, 
the  one  that  has  least  to  do  with  the  earth ; of  all,  the 
least  disposed,  and  the  least  able,  to  stop  to  pick  anything 
np.  What  will  it  build  with?  Gossamer,  we  should 
say, — thistledown, — anything  it  can  catch  floating,  like 
flies. 

But  it  builds  with  stiff  clay. 

53.  And  observe  its  chosen  place  for  building  also. 
You  would  think,  by  its  play  in  the  air,  that  not  only  of 
all  birds,  but  of  all  creatures,  it  most  delighted  in  space 
and  freedom.  You  would  fancy  its  notion  of  the  place 
for  a nest  would  be  the  openest  fleld  it  could  find ; that 
anything  like  confinement  would  be  an  agony  to  it ; that 
it  would  almost  expire  of  horror  at  the  sight  of  a black 
hole. 

And  its  favourite  home  is  down  a chimney. 

54.  Not  for  your  hearth’s  sake,  nor  for  your  company’s. 
Do  not  think  it.  The  bird  will  love  you  if  you  treat  it 
kindly ; is  as  frank  and  friendly  as  bird  can  be ; but  it 
does  not,  more  than  others,  seek  your  society.  It  comes 
to  your  house  because  in  no  wild  wood,  nor  rough  rock, 
can  it  find  a cavity  close  enough  to  please  it.  It  comes 
for  the  blessedness  of  imprisonment,  and  the  solemnity 


love’s  meinie.  47 

of  an  unbroken  and  constant  shadow,  in  the  tower,  or 
under  the  eaves. 

Do  you  suppose  that  this  is  part  of  its  necessary 
economy,  and  that  a swallow  could  not  catch  flies  unless 
it  lived  in  a hole  ? 

Not  so.  This  instinct  is  part  of  its  brotherhood  with 
another  race  of  creatures.  It  is  given  to  complete  a mesh 
in  the  reticulation  of  the  orders  of  life. 

55.  I have  already  given  you  several  reasons  for  my 
wish  that  you  should  retain,  in  classifying  birds,  the  now 
rejected  order  of  Picae.  I am  going  to  read  you  a pas- 
sage from  Humboldt,  which  shows  you  what  difficulties 
one  may  get  into  for  want  of  it. 

You  will  And  in  the  second  volume  of  his  personal 
narrative,  an  account  of  the  cave  of  Caripe  in  New 
Andalusia,  which  is  inhabited  by  entirely  nocturnal  birds, 
having  the  gaping  mouths  of  the  goat-sucker  and  the 
swallow,  and  yet  feeding  on  fruit. 

Unless,  which  Mr.  Humboldt  does  not  tell  us,  they  sit 
under  the  trees  outside,  in  the  night  time,  and  hold  their 
mouths  open,  for  the  berries  to  drop  into,  there  is  not  the 
smallest  occasion  for  their  having  wide  mouths,  like  swal- 
lows. Still  less  is  there  any  need,  since  they  are  fruit 
eaters,  for  their  living  in  a cavern  1,500  feet  out  of  day- 
light. They  have  only,  in  consequence,  the  trouble  of 
carrying  in  the  seeds  to  feed  their  young,  and  the  floor  of 
the  ca\  e is  thus  covered,  by  the  seeds  they  let  fall,  with  a 
growth  of  unfortunate  pale  plants,  which  have  never  seen 


48 


love’s  meinie. 


day.  Nay,  they  are  not  even  content  with  the  darkness  oi 
their  cave;  but  build  their  nests  in  the  funnels  with 
which  the  roof  of  the  grotto  is  pierced  like  a sieve  ; live 
actually  in  the  chimney,  not  of  a house,  but  of  an 
Egyptian  sepulchre ! The  colour  of  this  bird,  of  so  re- 
markable taste  in  lodging,  Humboldt  tells  us,  is  “ of  dark 
bluish-grey,  mixed  with  streaks  and  specks  of  black. 
Large  white  spots,  which  have  the  form  of  a heart,  and 
which  are  bordered  with  black,  mark  the  head,  the  wings, 
and  the  tail.  The  spread  of  the  wings,  which  are  com- 
posed of  seventeen  or  eighteen  quill  feathers,  is  three  feet 
and  a half.  Suppressing,  with  Mr.  Cuvier,  the  order  of 
Picae,  we  must  refer  this  extraordinary  bird  to  the  Sjpar- 
TowsP 

56.  We  can  only  suppose  that  it  must  be,  to  our  popu- 
lar sparrows,  what  the  swallow  of  the  cinnamon  country  is 
to  our  subordinate  swallow.  Do  you  recollect  the  cin- 
namon swallows  of  Herodotus,  who  build  their  mud  nests 
in  the  faces  of  the  cliffs  where  Dionusos  was  brought  up, 
and  where  nobodv  can  get  near  them ; and  how  the  cin- 
namon merchants  fetch  them  joints  of  meat,  which  the 
unadvised  birds,  flying  up  to  their  nests  with,  instead 
of  cinnamon, — nest  and  all  come  down  together, — the 
original  of  Sindbad’s  valley-of-diamond  story? 

57.  Well,  Humboldt  is  reduced,  by  necessities  of  recent 
classiflcation,  to  call  a bird  three  feet  and  a half  across  the 
wings,  a sparrow.  I have  no  right  to  laugh  at  him,  for  I 
am  just  going,  myself,  to  call  the  cheerfullest  and  bright- 


love’s  meinie. 


49 


est  of  birds  of  the  air,  an  owl.  All  these  architectural 
and  sepulchral  habits,  these  Egyptian  manners  of  the 
sand-martin,  digging  caves  in  the  sand,  and  border- 
trooper’s  habits  of  the  chimney  swallow,  living  in  round 
towers  instead  of  open  air,  belong  to  them  as  connected 
with  the  tribe  of  the  falcons  through  the  owls ! and  not 
only  so,  but  with  the  mammalia  through  the  bats!  A 
swallow  is  an  emancipated  owl,  and  a glorified  bat ; but  it 
never  forgets  its  fellowship  with  night. 

58.  Its  ancient  fellowship,  I had  nearly  written ; so 
natural  is  it  to  think  of  these  similarly- minded  creatures, 
when  the  feelings  that  both  show  are  evidently  useless  to 
one  of  them,  as  if  the  inferior  had  changed  into  the 
higher.  The  doctrine  of  development  seems  at  first  to 
explain  all  so  pleasantly,  that  the  scream  of  consent  with 
which  it  has  been  accepted  by  men  of  science,  and  the 
shriller  vociferation  of  the  public’s  gregarious  applause, 
scarcely  permit  you  the  power  of  antagonist  reflection.  I 
must  justify  to-day,  in  graver  tone  than  usual,  the  terms 
in  wEich  I have  hitherto  spoken, — it  may  have  been 
thought  with  less  than  the  due  respect  to  my  audience, — 
of  the  popular  theory. 

59.  Supposing  that  the  octohedrons  of  galena,  of  gold, 
and  of  oxide  of  iron,  were  endowed  with  powers  of  repro- 
duction, and  perished  at  appointed  dates  of  dissolution  or 
solution,  you  would  without  any  doubt  have  heard  it  by 
this  time  asserted  that  the  octohedric  form,  which  was 

common  to  all,  indicated  their  descent  from  a common 
3 


50 


love’s  meinie. 


progenitor;  and  it  would  have  been  ingeniously  ex- 
plained to  you  how  the  angular  offspring  of  this  eight- 
sided ancestor  had  developed  themselves,  by  force  of 
circumstances,  into  their  distinct  metallic  perfections ; 
how  the  galena  had  become  grey  and  brittle  under  pro- 
longed subterranean  heat,-and  the  gold  yellow  and  ductile, 
as  it  was  rolled  among  the  pebbles  of  amber-coloured 
streams. 

60.  By  the  denial  to  these  structures  of  any  individu- 
ally reproductive  energy,  you  are  forced  to  accept  the 
inexplicable  (and  why  expect  it  to  be  otherwise  than 
inexplicable  ?)  fact,  of  the  formation  of  a series  of  bodies 
having  very  similar  aspects,  qualities,  and  chemical  rela- 
tions to  other  substances,  which  yet  have  no  connection 
whatever  with  each  other,  and  are  governed,  in  their 
relation  with  their  native  rocks,  by  entirely  arbitrary  laws. 
It  has  been  the  pride  of  modern  chemistry  to  extricate 
herself  from  the  vanity  of  the  alchemist,  and  to  admit, 
with  resignation,  the  independent,  though  apparently 
fraternal,  natures,  of  silver,  of  lead,  of  platinum, — alumi- 
nium,— potassium.  Hence,  a rational  philosophy  would 
deduce  the  probability  that  when  the  arborescence  of 
dead  crystallization  rose  into  the  radiation  of  the  living 
tree,  and  sentient  plume,  the  splendour  of  nature  in  her 
more  exalted  power  would  not  be  restricted  to  a less 
variety  of  design  ; and  the  beautiful  caprice  in  which  she 
gave  to  the  silver  its  frost,  and  to  the  opal  its  fire,  would 
not  be  subdued  under  the  slow  influences  of  accident  and 


love’s  meinte. 


51 


time,  when  she  wreathed  the  swan  with  snow,  and  bathed 
the  dove  in  iridescence.  That  the  infinitely  moie  ex- 
alted powers  of  life  must  exercise  more  intimate  infinence 
over  matter  than  the  reckless  forces  of  cohesion; — and 
that  the  loves  and  hatreds  of  the  now  conscions  creatures 
would  modify  their  forms  into  parallel  beauty  and  degra- 
dation, we  might  have  anticipated  by  reason,  and  we 
ought  long  since  to  have  known  by  observation.  But  this 
law  of  its  spirit  over  the  substance  of  the  creature  in- 
volves, necessarily,  the  indistinctness  of  its  type,  and  the 
existence  of  inferior  and  of  higher  conditions,  which 
whole  8eras  of  heroism  and  affection — whole  seras  of 
misery  and  misconduct,  confirm  into  glory,  or  confuse 
into  shame.  Collecting  the  causes  of  changed  form,  in 
lower  creatures,  hj  distress,  or  by  adaptation, — by  the  dis- 
turbance or  intensifying  of  the  parental  strength,  and  the 
native  fortune — the  wonder  is,  not  that  species  should 
sometimes  be  confused,  but  that  the  greater  number  of 
them  remain  so  splendidly,  so  manifestly,  so  eternally 
distinct;  and  that  the  vile  industries  and  vicious  curi- 
osities of  modern  science,  while  they  have  robbed  the 
fields  of  England  of  a thousand  living  creatures,  have  not 
created  in  them  one. 

61.  But  even  in  the  paltry  knowledge  we  have  ob- 
tained, what  unanimity  have  we? — what  security?  Sup- 
pose any  man  of  ordinary  sense,  knowing  the  value  of 
time,  and  the  relative  importance  of  subjects  of  thought, 
and  that  the  whole  scientific  world  was  agog  concerning 


52 


love’s  mein?b. 


the  origin  of  species,  desired  to  know  first  of  all — what 
was  meant  by  a species. 

lie  would  naturally  look  for  the  definition  of  species 
first  among  the  higher  animals,  and  expect  it  to  be  best 
defined  in  those  which  were  best  known.  And  being 
referred  for  satisfaction  to  the  226th  page  of  the  first 
volume  of  Mr.  Darwin’s  “ Descent  of  Man,”  he  would  find 
this  passage : — 

‘‘  Man  has  been  studied  more  carefully  than  any  other 
organic  being,  and  yet  there  is  the  greatest  possible 
diversity  among  capable  judges,  whether  he  should  be 
classed  as  a single  species  or  race,  or  as  two  (Yirey),  as 
three  (Jacquinot),  as  four  (Kant),  five  (Blumenbach),  six 
(Buffon),  seven  (Hunter),  eight  (Agassiz),  eleven  (Picker- 
ing), fifteen  (Bory  St.  Vincent),  sixteen  (Desmoulins), 
twenty-two  (Morton),  sixty  (Crawford),  or  as  sixty-three 
according  to  Burke.” 

And  in  the  meantime,  while  your  men  of  science  are 
thus  vacillating,  in  the  definition  of  the  species  of  the  only 
animal  they  have  the  opportunity  of  studying  inside  and 
out,  between  one  and  sixty-three;  and  disputing  about 
the  origin,  in  past  ages,  of  what  thej  cannot  define  in  the 
present  one  ; and  deciphering  the  filthy  heraldries  which 
record  the  relation  of  humanity  to  the  ascidian  and  the 
crocodile,  you  have  ceased  utterly  to  distinguish  between 
the  two  species  of  man,  evermore  separate  by  infinite 
separation : of  whom  the  one,  capable  of  loyalty  and  of 
love,  can  at  least  conceive  spiritual  natures  which  have  no 


love’s  meintb. 


53 


taint  from  their  own,  and  leave  behind  them,  diffused 
among  thousands  on  earth,  the  happiness  they  never 
hoped,  for  themselves,  in  the  skies ; and  the  other,  capaLle 
only  of  avarice,  hatred,  and  shame,  who  in  their  lives  are 
the  companions  of  the  swine,  and  leave  in  death  nothing 
but  food  for  the  worm  and  the  vulture. 

62.  Now  I have  first  traced  for  you  the  relations  of  the 
creature  we  are  examining  to  those  beneath  it  and  above, 
to  the  bat  and  to  the  falcon.  But  you  will  find  that  it 
It  as  still  others  to  entirely  another  world.  As  you  watch 
it  glance  and  skim  over  the  surface  of  the  waters,  has  it 
never  struck  you  what  relation  it  bears  to  the  creatures 
that  glance  and  glide  under  their  surface  % Fly-catchers, 
some  of  them,  also, — fiy-catchers  in  the  same  manner, 
with  wide  mouth ; while  in  motion  the  bird  almost  ex- 
actly combines  the  dart  of  the  trout  with  the  dash  of  the 
dolphin,  to  the  rounded  forehead  and  projecting  muzzle 
of  which  its  own  bullet  head  and  bill  exactly  correspond. 
In  its  plunge,  if  you  watch  it  bathing,  you  may  see  it  dip 
its  breast  just  as  much  under  the  water  as  a porpoise 
shows  its  back  above.  You  can  only  rightly  describe  the 
bird  by  the  resemblances,  and  images  of  what  it  seems 
to  have  changed  from, — then  adding  the  fantastic  and 
beautiful  contrast  of  the  unimaginable  change.  It  is 
an  owl  that  has  been  trained  by  the  Graces.  It  is  a 
bat  that  loves  the  morning  light.  It  is  the  aerial  refiec- 
tioii  a dolphin.  It  is  the.  tender  domestication  of  a 
trout 


54 


love’s  meinie. 


63.  And  yet  be  assured,  as  it  cannot  have  been  all  these 
creatures,  so  it  has  never,  in  truth,  been  any  of  them. 
The  transformations  believed  in  by  the  mythologists  are 
at  least  spiritually  true  ; you  cannot  too  carefully  trace  or 
too  accurately  consider  them.  But  the  transformations 
believed  in  by  the  anatomist  are  as  yet  proved  true  in  no 
single  instance,  and  in  no  substance,  spiritual  or  material ; 
and  I cannot  too  often,  or  too  earnestly,  urge  you  not  to 
waste  your  time  in  guessing  what  animals  may  once  have 
been,  while  you  remain  in  nearly  total  ignorance  of  what 
they  are. 

64.  Do  you  even  know  distinctly  from  each  other, — 
(for  that  is  the  real  naturalist’s  business ; instead  of  con- 
founding them  with  each  other), — do  you  know  dis- 
tinctly the  five  great  species  of  this  familiar  bird? — the 
swallow,  the  house-martin,  the  sand-martin,  the  swift, 
and  the  Alpine  swift? — or  can  you  so  much  as  answer 
the  first  question  which  would  suggest  itself  to  any  cr  re- 
fill observer  of  the  form  of  its  most  familiar  species, — 
yet  which  I do  not  find  proposed,  far  less  answered,  in 
any  scientific  book, — nan^ely,  why  a swallow  has  a swai- 
low-tail  ? 

It  is  true  that  the  tail  feathers  in  many  birds  appear  to 
be  entirely, — even  cumbrously,  decorative  ; as  in  the  pea- 
cock, and  birds  of  paradise.  But  I am  confident  that  it  is 
not  so  in  the  swallow,  and  that  the  forked  tail,  so  define^ 
in  form  and  strong  in  plume,  has  indeed  important 
tions  in  guiding  the  fiight;  yet  notice  how  surroundeu 


love’s  meinie. 


55 


one  is  on  all  sides  with  pitfalls  for  the  theorists.  The 
forked  tail  reminds  you  at  once  of  a fish’s ; and  yet,  the 
action  of  the  two  creatures  is  wholly  contrary.  A fish 
lashes  himself  forward  with  his  tail,  and  steers  with  his 
fins;  a swallow  lashes  himself  forward  with  his  fins,  and 
steers  with  his  tail;  partly,  not  necessarily,  because  in 
the  most  dashing  of  the  swallows,  the  swift,  the  fork  of 
the  tail  is  the  least  developed.  And  I never  watch  the 
bird  for  a moment  without  finding  myself  in  some  fresh 
puzzle  out  of  which  there  is  no  clue  in  the  scientific 
books.  I want  to  know,  for  instance,  how  the  bird  turns. 
What  does  it  do  with  one  wing,  what  with  the  other  ? 
Fancy  the  pace  that  has  to  be  stopped;  the  force  of 
bridle-hand  put  out  in  an  instant.  Fancy  how  the  wings 
must  bend  with  the  strain ; what  need  there  must  be  for 
the  perfect  aid  and  work  of  every  feather  in  them. 
There  is  a problem  for  you,  students  of  mechanics, — How 
does  a swallow  turn  ? 

You  shall  see,  at  all  events,  to  begin  with,  to-day,  how 
it  gets  along. 

65.  I say  you  shall  see;  but  indeed  you  have  often 
seen,  and  felt, — at  least  with  your  hands,  if  not  with  your 
shoulders, — when  you  chanced  to  be  holding  the  sheet  of 
a sail. 

I have  said  that  I never  got  into  scrapes  by  blaming 
people  wrongly;  but  I often  do  by  praising  them  wrongly. 
1 never  praised,  without  qualification,  but  one  scientific 
book  in  my  life  (that  I remember) — this  of  Hr.  Petti- 


66 


love’s  meinie. 


grew’s  on  the  Wing;  * — and  now  I must  qualify  my  praise 
considerably,  discovering,  when  I examined  the  book  far- 
ther, that  the  good  doctor  had  described  the  motion  of  a 
bird  as  resembling  that  of  a kite,  without  ever  inquiring 
what,  in  a bird,  represented  that  somewhat  important  part 
of  a kite,  the  string.  You  will,  however,  find  the  book  full 
of  important  observations,  and  illustrated  by  valuable  draw- 
ings. But  the  point  in  question  you  must  settle  for  your- 

* ‘ ‘ On  the  Physiology  of  Wings.  ” Transactions  of  the  Royal  Society 
of  Edinburgh.  Vol.  xxvi.,  Part  ii.  I cannot  sufidciently  express  either 
my  wonder  or  regret  at  the  petulance  in  which  men  of  science  are  con- 
tinually tempted  into  immature  publicity,  by  their  rivalship  with  each 
other.  Page  after  page  of  this  book,  which,  slowly  digested  and  taken 
counsel  upon,  might  have  been  a noble  contribution  to  natural  history, 
is  occupied  with  dispute  utterly  useless  to  the  reader,  on  the  question 
of  the  priority  of  the  author,  by  some  months,  to  a French  savant,  in 
the  statement  of  a principle  which  neither  has  yet  proved ; while  page 
after  page  is  rendered  worse  than  useless  to  the  reader  by  the  author’s 
passionate  endeavour  to  contradict  the  ideas  of  unquestionably  previous 
investigators.  The  problem  of  flight  was,  to  all  serious  purpose,  solved 
by  Borelli  in  1680,  and  the  following  passage  is  very  notable  as  an 
example  of  the  way  in  which  the  endeavour  to  obscure  the  light  of 
former  ages  too  fatally  dims  and  distorts  thajb  by  which  modern  men  of 
science  walk,  themselves.  ‘ ‘ Borelli,  and  all  who  have  written  since  his 
time,  are  unanimous  in  affirming  that  the  horizontal  transference  of 
the  body  of  the  bird  is  due  to  the  perpendicular  vibration  of  the  wings, 
and  to  the  yielding  of  the  posterior  or  flexible  margins  of  the  wings  in 
an  upward  direction,  as  the  wings  descend.  I”  (Dr.  Pettigrew)  ‘‘am, 
however,  disposed  to  attribute  it  to  the  fact  (1st),  that  the  wings,  both 
when  elevated  and  depressed,  leap  forwards  in  curves,  those  curves 
uniting  to  form  a continuous  waved  track  ; (2nd),  to  the  tendency  which 
the  body  of  the  bird  has  to  swing  forwards^  in  a more  or  less  horizontal 
direction,  when  once  set  in  motion ; (3rd;,  to  the  construction  of  the 
wings  ; they  are  elastic  helices  or  screws,  which  twist  and  untwist 
while  they  vibrate,  and  tend  to  bear  upwards  and  onwards  any  weight 
suspended  from  them;  (4th),  to  the  reaction  of  the  air  on  the  under  sur^ 


love’s  meinie. 


57 


selves,  and  you  easily  may.  Some  of  you,  perhaps,  knew, 
in  your  time,  better  than  the  doctor,  how  a kite  stopped  ; 
but  I do  not  doubt  that  a great  many  of  you  also  know, 
now,  what  is  much  more  to  the  purpose,  how  a ship 
along.  I will  take  the  simplest,  the  most  natural,  the  most 
beautiful  of  sails, — the  lateen  sail  of  the  Mediterranean. 

66.  1 draw  it  rudely  in  outline,  as  it  w’^ould  be  set  for  a 
side-wind  on  the  boat  you  probably  know  best, — the  boat 

faces  of  the  wings  ; (5th),  to  the  emr-mrying  power  with  lohich  the  wings 
are  urged^  this  being  greatest  at  the  beginning  of  the  down-stroke,  and 
least  at  the  end.of  the  np  one ; {6th),  to  the  contraction  of  the  volun- 
tary muscles  and  elastic  ligaments,  and  to  the  effect  produced  by  the 
various  inclined  surfaces  formed  by  the  wings  during  their  oscillations  ; 
(7th),  to  the  weight  of  the  bird — weight  itself,  when  acting  upon  wings, 
becoming  a propelling  power,  and  so  contributing  to  horizontal  mo" 
tion.” 

I will  collect  these  seven  reasons  for  the  forward  motion,  in  the  gist 
of  them,  which  I have  marked  by  italics,  that  the  reader  may  better 
judge  of  their  collective  value.  The  bird  is  carried  forward,  according 
to  Dr.  Pettigrew — 

1.  Because  its  wings  leap  forward. 

2.  Because  its  body  has  a tendency  to  swing  forward. 

8.  Because  the  wings  are  screws  so  constructed  as  to  screw  upwards 
and  onwards  any  body  suspended  from  them. 

4.  Because  the  air  reacts  on  the  under  surfaces  of  the  wings. 

5.  Because  the  wings  are  urged  with  ever-varying  power. 

6.  Because  the  voluntary  muscles  contract. 

7.  Because  the  bird  is  heavy. 

What  must  be  the  general  conditions  of  modem  science,  when  it 
is  possible  for  a man  of  great  experimental  knowledge  and  prac- 
tical ingenuity,  to  publish  nonsense  such  as  this,  becoming,  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes,  insane,  in  the  passion  of  his  endeavour  to  overthrow 
the  statements  of  his  rival  ? Had  he  merely  taken  patience  to  consult 
any  elementary  scholar  in  dynamics,  he  would  have  been  enabled  to 
understand  his  own  machines,  and  develope,  with  credit  to  himself^ 
what  had  been  rightly  judged  or  noticed  by  others. 


68 


love’s  meinie. 


of  burden  on  the  Lake  of  Geneva  (Fig.  3),  not  confusing 
the  drawing  by  adding  the  mast,  which,  you  know,  rakes 
a little,  carrying  the  yard  across  it.  {a).  Then,  with  your 
permission,  I will  load  my  boat  thus,  with  a few  casks  of 


a 


Fig.  3. 

d c 


Vevay  vintage — and,  to  keep  them  cool,  we  will  put  an 
awning  over  them,  so  (5).  Next,  as  we  are  classical 
scholars,  instead  of  this  rustic  stem  of  the  boat,  meant 
only  to  run  easity  on  a flat  shore,  we  will  give  it  an  Attic 
€fi^o\ov  (c).  (W e have-  no  business,  indeed,  yet,  to  put  an 


59 


love’s  meinib. 

€fi^o\ov  on  a boat  of  burden,  but  I hope  some  day  to  see 
all  our  ships  of  war  loaded  with  bread  and  wine,  instead 
of  artillery.)  Then  I shade  the  entire  form  (c) ; and, 
lastly,  reflect  it  in  the  water  (d) — and  you  have  seen  some- 
thing like  that  before,  besides  a boat,  haven’t  you  ? 

There  is  the  gist  of  the  whole  business  for  you,  put  in 
very  small  space  ; with  these  only  differences : in  a boat, 
the  air  strikes  the  sail ; in  a bird,  the  sail  strikes  the  air : 
in  a boat,  the  force  is  lateral,  and  in  a bird  downwards ; 
and  it  has  its  sail  on  both  sides.  I shall  leave  you  to  fol- 
low out  the  mechanical  problem  for  yourselves,  as  far  as 
the  mere  resolution  of  force  is  concerned.  My  business, 
as  a painter,  is  only  with  the  exquisite  organic  weapon 
that  deals  with  it. 

67.  Of  which  you  are  now  to  note  farther,  that  a bird 
is  required  to  manage  his  wing  so  as  to  obtain  two  results 
with  one  blow  : — he  has  to  keep  himself  up,  as  well  as  to 
get  along. 

But  observe,  he  only  requires  to  keep  himself  up  he- 
cause  he  has  to  get  along.  The  buoyancy  might  have 
been  given  at  once,  if  nature  had  wanted  that  only ; she 
might  have  blown  the  feathers  up  with  the  hot  air  of  the 
breath,  till  the  bird  rose  in  air  like  a cork  in  water.  But 
it  has  to  be,  not  a buoyant  cork,  but  a buoyant  huLlet, 
Ajid  therefore  that  it  may  have  momentum  for  pace,  it 
must  have  weight  to  carry  ; and  to  carry  that  weight,  the 
winfi^s  must  deliver  their  blow  with  effective  vertical,  as 
well  as  oblique,  force. 


60 


love’s  meinie. 


Here,  again,  yon  may  take  the  matter  in  brief  sum. 
Whatever  is  the  ship’s  loss,  is  the  bird’s  gain ; whatever 
tendency  the  ship  has  to  leeway,  is  all  given  to  the  bird’s 
support,  so  that  every  atom  * of  force  in  the  blow  is  of 
service. 

68.  Therefore  you  have  to  construct  your  organic 
weapon,  so  that  this  absolutely  and  perfectly  economized 
force  may  be  distributed  as  the  bird  chooses  at  any 
moment.  That,  if  it  wants  to  rise,  it  may  be  able  to  strike 
vertically  more  than  obliquely ; — if  the  order  is,  go  a-head, 
that  it  may  put  tlie  oblique  screw  on.  If  it  wants  to  stop 
in  an  instant,  that  it  may  be  able  to  throw  its  wings  up 
full  to  the  wind ; if  it  wants  to  hover,  that  it  may  be  able 
to  lay  itself  quietly  on  the  wind  with  its  wings  and  tail, 
or,  in  calm  air,  to  regulate  their  vibration  and  expansion 
into  tranquillity  of  gliding,  or  of  pausing  power.  Given 
the  various  proportions  of  weight  and  wing ; the  condi- 
tions of  possible  increase  of  muscular  force  and  quill- 
strength  in  proportion  to  size  ; and  the  different  objects 
and  circumstances  of  flight, — you  have  a series  of  exqui- 
sitely complex  problems,  and  exquisitely  perfect  solutions, 
which  the  life  of  the  youngest  among  you  cannot  be  long 
enough  to  read  through  so  much  as  once,  and  of  which 
the  future  inflnitudes  of  human  life,  however  granted  or 
extended,  never  will  be  fatigued  in  admiration. 


* I don’t  know  what  word  to  use  for  an  infinitesimal  de^gree  or  divi- 
cfed  portion  of  force  : one  can’t  properly  speak  of  a force  being  cut  mini 
pieces ; but  I can  think  of  no  other  word  than  atom. 


love’s  meinie. 


61 


69.  I take  the  rude  outline  of  sail  in  Fig.  3,  and  nov^ 
considering  it  as  a jib  of  one  of  our  own  sailing  vessels, 
slightly  exaggerate  the  loops  at  the  edge,  and  draw 
curved  lines  from  them  to  the  opposite  point,  Fig.  4;  an! 

Fig.  4. 


I have  a reptilian  or  dragon’s  wing,  which  would,  with 
some  ramification  of  the  supporting  ribs,  become  a bat’s 
or  moth’s ; that  is  to  say,  an  extension  of  membrane  be^ 
tween  the  ribs  (as  in  an  umbrella),  which  will  catch  the 
wind,  and  fiutter  upon  it,  like  a leaf  ; but  cannot  strike  it 
to  any  purpose.  The  flying  squirrel  drifts  like  a falling 
leaf ; the  bat  flits  like  a black  rag  torn  at  the  edge.  To 
give  power,  we  must  have  plumes  that  can  strike,  as  with 
the  flat  of  a sword-blade ; and  to  gixQ  perfect  power,  these 
must  be  laid  over  each  other,  so  that  each  may  support 
the  one  below  it.  I use  the  word  below  advisedly : we 
have  to  strike  down.  The  lowest  feather  is  the  one  that 


62 


liOT^E  S IStfEXNTE* 


first  meets  the  adverse  force.  It  is  the  one  to  be  sup^ 
ported. 

Now  for  the  manner  of  the  support.  You  must  all 
know  well  the  look  of  the  machicolated  parapets  in  medi- 
86val  castles.  You  know  they  are  carried  on  rows  of  small 
projecting  buttresses  constructed  so  that,  though  the  up- 
permost stone,  far-projecting,  would  break  easily  under 
any  shock,  it  is  supported  by  the  next  below,  and  so  on, 
down  to  the  wall.  Now  in  this  figure  I am  obliged  to 
separate  the  feathers  by  white  spaces,  to  show  you  them 
distinctly.  In  reality  they  are  set  as  close  to  each  other 
as  can  be,  but  putting  them  as  close  as  I can,  you  get  a or 

Fig.  5,  for  the  rough  section  of  the  wing,  thick  towards 
the  bird’s  head,  and  curved  like  a sickle,  so  that  in  strik- 
ing down  it  catches  the  air,  like  a reaping-hook,  and  in 
rising  up,  it  throws  off  the  air  like  a pent-house. 

70.  The  stroke  would  therefore  be  vigorous,  and  the 
recovery  almost  effortless,  were  even  the  direction  of  both 
actually  vertical.  But  they  are  vertical  only  with  rela- 
tion to  the  bird’s  body.  In  space  they  follow  the  forward 
flight,  in  a softly  curved  line  ; the  downward  stroke  being 
as  effective  as  the  bird  chooses,  the  recovery  scarcely  en- 
counters resistance  in  the  softly  gliding  ascent.  Thus,  in 
Fig.  5,  (I  can  only  explain  this  to  readers  a little  versed 
in  the  elements  of  mechanics,)  if  b is  the  locus  of  the 
centre  of  gravity  of  the  bird,  moving  in  slow  flight  in  the 
direction  of  the  arrow,  w is  the  locus  of  the  leading 
feather  of  its  wing,  and  a and  5,  roughly,  the  succes- 


love’s  meinte.  63 

sive  positions  of  the  wing  in  the  down-stroke  and  re- 
covery. 

Fig.  5. 


71.  I say  the  down-stroke  is  as  effective  as  the  bird 
chooses ; that  is  to  say,  it  can  be  given  with  exactly 
the  quantity  of  impulse,  and  exactly  the  quantity  of 
supporting  power,  required  at  the  moment.  Thus,  when 
the  bird  wants  to  fly  slowly,  the  wings  are  fluttered  fast, 
giving  vertical  blows;  if  it  wants  to  pause  absolutely 
in  still  air,  (this  large  birds  cannot  do,  not  being  able  to 
move  their  wings  fast  enough,)  the  velocity  becomes 
vibration,  as  in  the  humming-bird : but  if  there  is  wind, 
any  of  the  larger  birds  can  lay  themselves  on  it  like  a 
kite,  their  own  weight  answering  the  purpose  of  the 
string,  while  they  keep  the  wings  and  tail  in  an  inclined 
plane,  giving  them  as  much  gliding  ascent  as  counteracts 
the  fall.  They  nearly  all,  however,  use  some  sliglitly 
gliding  force  at  the  same  time ; a single  stroke  of  the 
wing,  with  forward  intent,  seeming  enough  to  enable 
them  to  glide  on  for  half  a minute  or  more  without 
stirring  a plume.  A circling  eagle  floats  an  inconceiva- 
ble time  without  visible  stroke : (fancy  the  pretty  acjtion 
of  the  inner  wing,  hacking  air  instead  of  water,  which 


84 


loye’s  meinie. 


gives  exactly  the  breadth  of  circle  he  chooses).  But  for 
exhibition  of  the  complete  art  of  flight,  a swallow  on 
rough  water  is  the  master  of  masters.  A seagull,  with 
all  its  splendid  power,  generally  has  its  work  cut  out  for 
it,  and  is  visibly  fighting;  but  the  swallow  plays  with 
wind  and  wave  as  a girl  plays  with  her  fan,  and  there  are 
no  words  to  say  how  many  things  it  does  with  its  wings  in 
any  ten  seconds,  and  does  consummately.  The  mystery 
of  its  dart  remains  always  inexplicable  to  me ; no  eye 
can  trace  the  bending  of  bow  that  sends  that  living 
arrow. 

But  the  main  structure  of  the  noble  weapon  we  may 
with  little  pains  understand. 

72.  In  the  sections  a and  h of  Fig.  5,  I have  only  repre- 
sented the  quills  of  the  outer  part  of  the  wing.  The 
relation  of  these,  and  of  the  inner  quills,  to  the  bird’s 
body  may  be  very  simply  shown. 

Fig.  6 is  a rude  sketch,  typically  representing  the  wing 
of  any  bird,  but  actually  founded  chiefly  on  the  seagull’s. 

It  is  broadly  composed  of  two  fans,  a and  b.  The 
outmost  fan,  a,  is  carried  by  the  bird’s  hand ; of  which 
I rudely  sketch  the  contour  of  the  bones  at  a.  The  inner- 
most fan,  B,  is  carried  by  the  bird’s  fore-arm,  from  wrist 
to  elbow,  h. 

The  strong  humerus,  corresponding  to  our  arm  from 
shoulder  to  elbow,  has  command  of  the  whole  instrument. 
No  feathers  are  attached  to  this  bone ; but  covering  and 
protecting  ones  are  set  in  the  skin  of  it,  completely  filling, 


love’s  MEESriE. 


65 


when  the  active  wing  is  open,  the  space  between  it  and 
the  body.  But  the  plumes  of  the  two  great  fans,  a and 
B,  are  set  into  the  bones ; in  Fig.  8,  farther  on,  are 

Fig.  6. 


shown  the  projecting  knobs  on  the  main  arm  bone,  set  foi 
the  reception  of  the  quills,  which  make  it  look  like  th^ 


66 


love’s  meinie. 


club  of  Hercules.  The  connection  of  the  still  more  pow- 
erful quills  of  the  outer  fan  with  the  bones  of  the  hand 
is  quite  beyond  all  my  poor  anatomical  perceptions,  and, 
happily  for  me,  also  beyond  needs  of  artistic  investiga- 
tion. 

73.  The  feathers  of  the  fan  a are  called  the  primaries. 
Those  of  the  fan  b,  secondaries.  Effective  actions  of 
flight,  whether  for  support  or  forward  motion,  are,  I be- 
lieve, all  executed  with  the  primaries,  every  one  of  which 
may  be  briefly  described  as  the  strongest  scymitar  that 
can  be  made  of  quill  substance ; flexible  within  limits, 
and  elastic  at  its  edges — carried  by  an  elastic  central 
shaft — twisted  like  a windmill  sail — striking  with  the  flat, 
and  recovering  with  the  edge. 

The  secondary  feathers  are  more  rounded  at  the  ends, 
and  frequently  notched  ; their  curvature  is  reversed  to 
that  of  the  primaries;  they  are  arranged,  when  expanded, 
somewhat  in  the  shape  of  a shallow  cup,  with  the  hollow 
of  it  downwards,  holding  the  air  therefore,  and  aiding 
in  all  the  pause  and  buoyancy  of  flight,  but  little  in  the 
activity  of  it.  Essentially  they  are  the  brooding  and  cov- 
ering feathers  of  the  wing  ; exquisitely  beautiful — as  far 
as  I have  yet  seen,  most  beautiful — in  the  bird  whose 
brooding  is  of  most  use  to  us ; and  which  has  become  the 
image  of  all  tenderness.  ^^How  often  would  I have  gath- 
ered thy  children  . . . and  ye  would  not.” 

74,  Over  these  two  chief  masses  of  the  plume  are  set 
others  which  partly  complete  their  power,  partly  adorn 


LOVE  S MEINIE. 


67 


and  protect  them ; but  of  these  I can  take  no  notice  at 
present.  All  that  I want  you  to  understand  is  the  action 
of  the  two  main  masses,  as  the  wing  is  opened  and  closed, 


Fig.  7. 


"/ig.  7 roughly  represents  the  upper  surface  of  the  main 
feathers  of  the  wing  closed.  The  secondaries  are  folded 
over  the  primaries  ; and  the  primaries  shut  up  close,  with 
their  outer  edges  parallel,  or  nearly  so.  Fig.  8 roughly 
shows  the  outline  of  the  bones,  in  this  position,  of  one  of 
the  larger  pigeons.* 

75.  Then  Fig.  9 is  (always  sketched  in  the  roughest 
way)  the  outer.  Fig.  10  the  inner,  surface  of  a seagull’s 
wing  in  this  position.  Next,  Fig.  11  shows  the  tops  of  the 
four  lowest  feathers  in  Fig.  9,  in  mere  outline ; a separate 
(pulled  off,  so  that  they  can  be  set  side  by  side),  b shut 
up  close  in  the  folded  wing,  c opened  in  the  spread  wing. 

* i find  even  this  mere  outline  of  anatomical  structure  so  interfere 
with  the  temper  in  which  I wish  my  readers  to  think,  that  I shall  with- 
draAv  it  in  my  complete  edition. 


68  love’s  meinie. 

76.  And  now,  if  yon  will  yourselves  watch  a few  birds 
in  flight,  or  opening  and  closing  their  wings  to  prune 
them,  you  will  soon  know  as  much  as  is  needful  for  oui 

Fig.  8. 


art  purposes ; and,  which  is  far  more  desirable,  feel  how 
very  little  we  know,  to  any  purpose,  of  even  the  famili?i.^ 
creatures  that  are  our  companions. 


love’s  meinie. 


69 


mean,  by  telling  yon  not  to  study  human  anatomy,  that 
you  are  not  to  know  how  many  fingers  and  toes  you  have, 
nor  how  you  can  grasp  and  walk  with  them ; and,  simi- 

Large,  and  somewliat  carefully  painted  diagrams  were  shown  at  the 
ieccure,  whicn  1 cannot  engrave  but  for  my  complete  edition. 


Even  what  we  have  seen  to-day  * is  more  than  appears 
to  have  been  noticed  by  the  most  careful  painters  of  the 
great  schools ; and  you  will  continually  fancy  that  I am 
inconsistent  with  myself  in  pressing  you  to  learn,  better 
than  they,  the  anatomy  of  birds,  while  I violently  and 
constantly  urge  you  to  refuse  the  knowledge  of  the  anato- 
my of  men.  But  you  will  find,  as  my  system  developes 
itself,  that  it  is  absolutely  consistent  throughout.  I don’t 

Fio.  9. 


70 


love’s  meinib. 


larly,  when  you  look  at  a bird,  I wish  you  to  know  how 
many  claws  and  wing-feathers  it  has,  and  how  it  grips 
and  flies  with  them.  Of  the  bones,  in  either,  I shall  show 
you  little ; and  of  the  muscles,  nothing  but  what  can  be 
seen  in  the  living  creature,  nor,  often,  even  so  much. 

77.  And  accordingly,  when  I now  show  you  this  sketch 
of  my  favourite  Holbein,  and  tell  you  that  it  is  entirely 
disgraceful  he  should  not  know  what  a wing  was,  better, 
— don’t  mean  that  it  is  disgraceful  he  should  not  know 
the  anatomy  of  it,  but  that  he  should  never  have  looked 
at  it  to  see  how  the  feathers  lie. 


Fio.  la 


Now  Holbein  paints  men  gloriously,  but  never  looks 
at  birds;  Gibbons,  the  woodcutter,  carves  birOSc  mt 


love’s  MEmiE. 


71 


can’t  men ; — of  the  two  faults  the  last  is  the  worst ; but 

Pig.  11. 


A B 


the  right  is  in  looking  at  the  whole  of  nature  in  due  com- 
parison, and  with  universal  candour  and  tenderness. 


72 


love’s  meinib. 


/ 


78.  At  the  whole  of  nature,  I say,  not  at  5t^^r-nature 
— at  what  you  suppose  to  be  above  the  visible  nature 
about  you.  If  you  are  not  inclined  to  look  at  the  wings 
of  birds,  which  God  has  given  you  to  handle  and  to  see, 
much  less  are  you  to  contemplate,  or  draw  imaginations 
of,  the  wings  of  angels,  which  you  can’t  see.  Know  your 
own  world  first — not  denying  any  other,  but  being  quite 
sure  that  tbe  place  in  which  you  are  now  put  is  the  place 
with  which  you  are  now  concerned ; and  that  it  will  be 
wiser  in  you  to  think  the  gods  themselves  may  appear  in 
the  form  of  a dove,  or  a swallow,  than  that,  by  false  theft 
from  the  form  of  dove  or  swallow,  you  can  represent  the 
aspect  of  gods 

79.  One  sweet  instance  of  such  simple  conception,  in 
the  end  of  the  Odyssey,  must  surely  recur  to  your  minds 
in  connection  with  our  subject  of  to-day,  but  you  may  not 
have  noticed  the  recurrent  manner  in  which  Homer  in- 
sists on  the  thought.  When  Ulysses  first  bends  and 
strings  his  bow,  the  vibration  of  the  chord  is  shrill,  like 
the  note  of  a swallow.”  A poor  and  unwarlike  simile,  it 
seems ! But  in  the  next  book,  when  Ulysses  stands  with 
his  bow  lifted,  and  Telemachus  has  brought  the  lances, 
and  laid  them  at  his  feet,  and  Athena  comes  to  his  side  to 
encourage  him, — do  you  recollect  the  gist  of  her  speech? 
^^You  fought,”  she  says,  “nine  years  for  the  sake  of 
Helen,  and  for  another’s  house : — now,  returned,  after  all 
those  wanderings,  and  under  your  own  roof,  for  it,  ana 
its  treasures,  will  you  not  fight,  then  ? ” And  she  herself 


love’s  meinie. 


73 


flies  Tip  to  the  house-roof,  and  thence,  in  the  form  of  the 
swallow^  guides  the  arrows  of  vengeance  for  the  violation 
of  the  sanctities  of  home. 

80.  To-day,  then,  I believe  verily  for  the  first  time,  I 
have  been  able  to  put  before  you  some  means  of  guidance 
to  understand  the  beauty  of  the  bird  which  lives  with  you 
in  your  own  houses,  and  which  purifies  for  you,  from  its 
insect  pestilence,  the  air  that  you  breathe.  Thus  the 
sweet  domestic  thing  has  done,  for  men,  at  least  these 
four  thousand  years.  She  has  been  their  companion,  not 
of  the  home  merely,  but  of  the  hearth,  and  the  threshold ; 
companion  only  endeared  by  departure,  and  showing 
better  her  loving-kindness  by  her  faithful  return.  Type 
sometimes  of  the  stranger,  she  has  softened  us  to  hospi- 
tality; type  always  of  the  suppliant,  she  has  enchanted  us 
to  mercy ; and  in  her  feeble  presence,  tlie  cowardice,  or 
the  wrath,  of  sacrilege  has  changed  into  the  fidelities  of 
sanctuar}^  Herald  of  our  summer,  she  glances  through 
our  days  of  gladness ; numberer  of  our  years,  she  would 
teach  us  to  apply  our  hearts  to  wisdom ; — and  yet,  so  little 
have  we  regarded  her,  that  this  very  day,  scarcely  able  to 
gather  from  all  I can  find  told  of  her  enough  to  explain 
so  much  as  the  unfolding  of  her  wings,  I can  tell  you 
nothing  of  her  life — nothing  of  her  journeying : I cannot 
learn  how  she  builds,  nor  how  she  chooses  the  place 
of  her  wandering,  nor  how  she  traces  the  path  of  her 
return.  Remaining  thus  blind  and  careless  to  the  true 
ministries  of  the  humble  creature  whom  God  has  really 


74 


love’s  meinie. 


sent  to  serve  us,  we  in  our  pride,  thinking  ourselves  sur- 
rounded by  the  pursuivants  of  the  sky,  can  yet  only  in- 
v(jst  tl\ein  with  majesty  by  giving  them  the  calm  of  the 
bird’s  motion,  and  shade  of  the  bird’s  plume: — and  after 
all,  it  is  well  for  us,  if,  when  even  for  God’s  best  mercies, 
and  in  His  temples  marble-built,  we  think  that,  “ with 
angels  and  archangels,  and  all  the  company  of  Heaven, 
we  laud  and  magnify  His  glorious  name” — well  for  us, 
if  our  attem])t  be  not  only  an  insult,  and  His  ears  open 
rather  to  the  inarticulate  and  unintended  praise,  of  “ the 
Swallow,  twittering  from  her  straw-built  shed.” 


NOTES 


ON  THE 


CONSTRUCTION  Of  SHEEPfOLDS 


BY 

JOHN  RUSKIN,  M.A., 

ACJTFOR  OP  “the  8EVKN  LAMPS  OF  AtJOHITBCTURO,”  &r- 


NEW  YORK  AND  SAINT  PAUL: 

D.  D.  MERRILL  COMPANY. 


‘ J 


ADYERTISEMENT. 


Man  r persons  will  probably  find  fault  with  me  for  publish- 
ing opinions  which  a^e  not  new ; but  I shall  bear  this  blame 
contentedly,  believing  that  opinions  on  this  subject  could 
hardly  be  just  if  they  were  not  1800  years  old.  Others 
will  blame  me  for  making  proposals  which  are  altogether 
new ; to  whom  I would  answer,  that  things  in  these  days 
seem  not  so  far  right  but  that  they  may  be  mended.  And 
others  will  simply  call  the  opinions  false  and  the  proposals 
foolish — iv)  whose  good  will,  if  they  take  it  in  hand  to 
contradict  me,  I must  leave  what  I have  written — having 
no  purpose  of  being  drawn,  at  present,  into  religious  con- 
troversy. If,  however,  any  should  admit  the  truth,  but 
regret  the  tone  of  what  I have  said,  I can  only  pray  them 
to  consider  how  much  less  harm  is  done  in  the  world  by 
ungraceful  boldness,  than  by  untimely  Pear, 

Denmark  Hill, 

9eb.  1861. 


NOTES  ON 


THE  COMSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOIDS. 


The  following  remarks  were  intended  to  form  part  of  the 
appendix  to  an  essay  on  Architecture:  But  it  seemed  to  me, 
when  I had  put  them  into  order,  that  they  might  be  useful  to 
persons  w^no  would  not  care  to  possess  the  work  to  which  I 
proposed  to  attach  them ; I publish  them,  therefore,  in  a sepa- 
rate form ; but  I have  not  time  to  give  them  more  consistency 
than  they  would  have  had  in  the  subordinate  position  origi- 
nally intended  for  them.  I do  not  profess  to  teach  Divinity ; 
and  I pray  tt  e reader  to  understand  this,  and  to  pardon  the 
slightness  and  insufficiency  of  notes  set  down  with  no  more 
intention  of  connected  treatment  of  their  subject  than  might 
regulate  an  accidental  conversation.  Some  of  them  are  simply 
copied  from  my  private  diary ; others  are  detached  statements 
of  facts,  which  seem  to  me  significative  or  valuable,  without 
comment ; all  are  written  in  haste,  and  in  the  intervals  of  occu- 
pation with  an  entirely  different  subject.  It  may  be  asked  of 
me,  whether  I hold  it  right  to  speak  thus  hastily  and  insuffi 
ciently  respecting  the  matter  in  question?  Yes.  I hold  it 
right  to  speah  hastily : not  to  think  hastily.  I have  not  thought 
hastily  of  these  things ; and,  besides,  the  haste  of  speech  is  con- 
fessed, that  the  reader  may  think  of  me  only  as  talking  to  him, 
and  saying,  as  shortly  and  simply  as  I can,  things  which,  if  he 


6 


NOTES  ON  THE 


esteem  them  foolish  or  idle,  he  is  welcome  to  cast  aside;  but 
which,  in  very  truth,  I cannot  help  saying  at  this  time. 

The  passages  in  the  essay  which  required  notes,  described 
the  repression  of  the  political  power  of  the  Venetian  Clergy 
by  the  Venetian  Senate  ; and  it  became  necessary  for  me — ^in 
supporting  an  assertion  made  in  the  course  of  the  inquiry,  that 
the  idea  of  separation  of  Church  and  State  was  both  vain  and 
impious — to  limit  the  sense  in  which  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
word  ‘‘  Church  ” should  be  understood,  and  to  note  one  oi 
two  consequences  which  would  result  from  the  acceptance  of 
such  limitation.  This  I may  as  well  do  in  a separate  paper, 
readable  by  any  person  interested  in  the  subject ; for  it  is  high 
time  that  some  definition  of  the  word  should  be  agreed  upon. 
I do  not  mean  a definition  involving  the  doctrine  of  this  or 
that  division  of  Christians,  but  limiting,  in  a manner  under- 
Btood  by  all  of  them,  the  sense  in  which  the  word  should  thence- 
forward be  used.  There  is  grievous  inconvenience  in  the 
present  state  of  things.  For  instance,  in  a sermon  lately  pub- 
lished at  Oxford,  by  an  anti  Tractarian  divine,  I find  this 
sentence, — ‘‘It  is  clearly  within  the  province  of  the  State  to 
establish  a national  churchy  or  external  institution  of  certain 
forms  of  worship Now  suppose  one  were  to  take  this  inter- 
pretation of  the  word  “Church”  given  by  an  Oxford  divine, 
and  substitute  it  for  the  simple  word  in  some  Bible  Texts,  as 
for  instance,  “Unto  the  angel  of  the  external  institution  ol 
c(irtain  forms  of  worship  of  Ephesus,  write,”  &c.  Or,  “ Salute 
the  brethren  which  are  in  Laodicea,  and  Nymphas,  and  the 
external  institution  of  certain  forms  of  worship  which  is  in  hig 
house,” — what  awkward  results  we  should  have,  here  and 
there!  Now  I do  not  say  it  is  possible  for  men  to  agree  with 
each  other  in  their  religious  opinions^  but  it  is  certainly  possi- 
ble for  them  to  agree  with  each  other  upon  their  religious 
expressions  ; and  when  a word  occurs  in  the  Bible  a hundred 
and  fourteen  times,  it  is  surely  not  asking  too  much  of  con* 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHERPFOLDS. 


7 


tending  divines  to  let  it  stand  in  the  sense  in  which  it  there 
occurs ; and  when  they  want  an  expression  of  something  foi 
which  it  does  not  stand  in  the  Bible,  to  use  some  other  word. 
There  is  no  compromise  of  religious  opinion  in  this:  it  is  simply 
proper  respect  for  the  Queen’s  English. 

The  word  occurs  in  the  New  Testament,  as  I said,  one  hun 
dred  and  fourteen  times.*  In  every  one  of  those  occurrences, 
it  bears  one  and  the  same  grand  sense : that  of  a congregation 
or  assembly  of  men.  But  it  bears  this  sense  under  four  differ 
ent  modifications,  giving  four  separate  meanings  to  the  word. 
These  are — 

I.  The  entire  Multitude  of  the  Elect ; otherwise  called  the 
Body  of  Christ ; and  sometimes  the  Bride,  the  Lamb’s  Wife ; 
including  the  Faithful  in  all  ages ; Adam,  and  the  children  of 
Adam  yet  unborn. 

In  this  sense  it  is  used  in  Ephesians  v.  25,  27,  32  ; Colossians 
i.  18,  and  several  other  passages. 

II.  The  entire  multitude  of  professing  believers  in  Christ, 
existing  on  earth  at  a given  moment ; including  false  brethren, 
wolves  in  sheep’s  clothing,  goats,  and  tares,  as  well  as  sheep 
and  wheat,  and  other  forms  of  bad  fish  with  good  in  the 
net. 

In  this  sense  it  is  used  in  1 Cor.  x.  32 ; xv,  9 ; Galatians  i. 
13,  1 Tim.  iii.  5,  &c. 

III.  The  multitude  of  professed  believers,  living  in  a certain 
city,  place,  or  house.  This  is  the  most  frequent  sense  in  which 
the  word  occurs,  as  in  Acts  vii.  38 ; xiii.  1 ; 1 Cor.  i.  2 ; xvi.  19 
&c. 

IV.  Any  assembly  of  men:  as  in  Acts  xix.  32,  41. 

That  in  a hundred  and  twelve  out  of  the  hundred  and  four 
teen  texts,  the  word  bears  some  one  of  these  four  meanings,  is 

♦ 1 may,  perhaps,  have  missed  count  of  one  or  two  occurrences  of  the 
word ; but  not,  1 think,  in  any  important  passages. 


8 


NOTES  ON  THE 


indisputable.*  But  there  are  two  texts  in  which,  if  the  word 
had  alone  occurred,  its  meaning  might  have  been  doubtful. 
These  are  Matt.  xvi.  18,  and  xviii.  17. 

The  absurdity  of  founding  any  doctrine  upon  the  inexpres- 
sibly minute  possibility  that  in  these  two  texts,  the  word  might 
have  been  used  with  a different  meaning  from  that  which  it 
bore  in  all  the  others,  coupled  with  the  assumption  that  the 
meaning  was  this  or  that,  is  self-evident : it  is  not  so  much  a 
religious  error  as  a philological  solecism ; unparalleled,  so  far 
as  I know,  in  any  other  science  but  that  of  divinity. 

Nor  is  it  ever,  I think,  committed  with  open  front  by  Pro- 
testants. N o English  divine,  asked  in  a straightforward  manner 
for  a Scriptul*al  definition  of  ‘‘  the  Church,”  would,  I suppose, 
be  bold  enough  to  answer  “the  Clergy.”  Nor  is  there  any 
harm  in  the  common  use  of  the  word,  so  only  that  it  be  dis- 
tinctly understood  to  be  not  the  Scriptural  one ; and  therefore 
to  be  unfit  for  substitution  in  a Scriptural  text.  There  is  no 
harm  in  a man’s  talking  of  his  son’s  “ going  into  the  Church  ”; 
meaning  that  he  is  going  to  take  orders ; but  there  is  much 
harm  in  his  supposing  this  a Scriptural  use  of  the  word,  and 
therefore,  that  when  Christ  said,  “Tell  it  to  the  Church,”  He 
might  possibly  have  meant,  “ Tell  it  to  the  Clergy.” 

It  is  time  to  put  an  end  to  the  chance  of  such  misunderstand- 
ing. Let  it  but  be  declared  plainly  by  all  men,  when  they 
begin  to  state  their  opinions  on  matters  ecclesiastical,  that 
they  will  use  the  word  “ Church  ” in  one  sense  or  the  other ; — 
That  they  will  accept  the  sense  in  which  it  is  used  by  the 
Apostles,  or  that  they  deny  this  sense,  and  propose  a nevv 
definition  of  their  own.  We  shall  then  know  what  we  M-i 

* The  expression  “ House  of  God,”  in  Tim.  iii.  15,  is  shown  to  be  used  ol 
the  congregation  by  1 Cor.  iii.  16,  17. 

I have  not  noticed  the  word  KvotaKft  (otVta),  from  which  the  German  “K;rche,” 
the  English  “Church.”  and  the  Scotch  “ Kirk,”  are  derived,  as  it  is  not  ise^ 
witi'-  that  signiScation  in  the  New  Testament 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEKPFOLDS. 


9 


about  with  them — we  may  perhaps  grant  them  their  new  use 
of  the  term,  and  argue  with  them  on  that  understanding ; so 
only  that  they  will  not  pretend  to  make  use  of  Scriptural 
authority,  while  they  refuse  to  employ  Scriptural  language. 
This,  however,  it  is  not  my  purpose  to  do  at  present.  1 de* 
gire  only  to  address  those  who  are  willing  to  accept  the  Apos- 
tolic sense  of  the  word  Church,  and  with  them,  I would 
endeavor  shortly  to  ascertain  what  consequences  must  follow 
fi'om  an  acceptance  of  that  Apostolic  sense,  and  what  must  be 
our  first  and  most  necessary  conclusions  from  the  common 
language  of  Scripture  * respecting  these  following  points:— 

1.  The  distinctive  characters  of  the  Church. 

2.  The  Authority  of  the  Church. 

3.  The  Authority  of  the  Clergy  over  the  Church. 

4.  The  connection  of  the  Church  with  the  State. 

These  are  four  separate  subjects  of  question;  but  we  shall 
not  have  to  put  these  questions  in  succession  with  each  of  the 
four  Scriptural  meanings  of  the  word  Church,  for  evidently  its 
second  and  third  meaning  may  be  considered  together,  as 
merely  expressing  the  general  or  particular  conditions  of  the 
Visible  Church,  and  the  fourth  signification  is  entirely  inde- 
pendent of  all  questions  of  a religious  kind.  So  that  we  shall 
only  put  the  above  inquiries  successively  respecting  the  Invi- 
sible and  Visible  Church ; and  as  the  two  last, — of  authority  of 
Clergy,  and  connection  with  State — can  evidently  only  have 
reference  to  the  Visible  Church,  we  shall  have,  in  all,  these  six 
questions  to  consider. 

♦ Any  reference,  except  to  Scripture,  in  notes  of  this  kind  would  of  course 
be  useless : the  argument  from,  or  with,  the  Fathers,  is  not  to  be  compressed 
into  fifty  pages.  I have  something  to  say  about  Hooker ; but  I reserve  that 
for  another  time,  not  wishing  to  say  it  hastily,  or  to  leave  it  without  support 

1* 


10 


NOTES  ON  THE 


1.  The  distinctive  characters  of  the  Invisible  Church, 

2.  The  distinctive  characters  of  the  Visible  Church. 

3.  The  Authority  of  the  Invisible  Church. 

4.  The  Authority  of  the  Visible  Church. 

5 The  Authority  of  Clergy  over  the  Visible  Church. 

6 The  Connection  of  the  Visible  Church  with  the  State. 

1.  What  are  the  distinctive  characters  of  the  Invisible 
Church  ; that  is  to  say,  What  is  it  which  makes  a person  a 
member  of  this  Church,  and  how  is  he  to  be  known  for  such  ? 

Wide  question — if  we  had  to  take  cognizance  of  all  that  has 
been  written  respecting  it,  remarkable  as  it  has  been  always  for 
quantity  rather  than  carefulness,  and  full  of  confusion  between 
Visible  and  Invisible : even  the  article  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land being  ambiguous  in  its  first  clause : “The  'Visible  Church 
is  a congregation  of  Faithful  men.”  As  if  ever  it  had  been 
possible,  except  for  God,  to  see  Faith ! or  to  know  a Faithful 
man  by  sight.  And  there  is  little  else  written  on  this  ques- 
tion, without  some  such  quick  confusion  of  the  Visible  and 
Invisible  Church ; — needless  and  unaccountable  confusion. 
For  evidently,  the  Church  which  is  composed  of  Faithful  men, 
is  the  one  true,  indivisible,  and  indiscernible  Church,  built  on 
the  foundation  of  Apostles  and  Prophets,  Jesus  Christ  himself 
being  the  chief  corner-stone.  It  includes  all  who  have  ever 
fallen  asleep  in  Christ,  and  all  yet  unborn,  who  are  to  be 
saved  in  Him ; its  Body  is  as  yet  imperfect ; it  will  not  be 
perfected  till  the  last  saved  human  spirit  is  gathered  to  its 
God. 

A man  becomes  a member  of  this  Church  only  by  believing 
in  Christ  with  all  his  heart ; nor  is  he  positively  recognizable 
for  a member  of  it,  when  he  has  become  so,  by  any  one  but 
God,  not  even  by  himself.  Nevertheless,  there  are  certain 
signs  by  which  Christ’s  sheep  may  be  guessed  at.  Not  by 
their  being  in  any  definite  Fold — for  many  are  lost  sheep  at 


CONSTRUCTION^  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


11 


times : but  by  their  sheep-like  behavior ; and  a great  manj 
are  indeed  sheep  which,  on  the  far  mountain  side,  in  theii 
peacefulness,  we  take  for  stones.  To  themselves,  the  best, 
proof  of  their  being  Christ’s  sheep  is  to  find  themselves  on 
Christ’s  shoulders ; and,  between  them,  there  are  certain  sym 
pathies  (expressed  in  the  Apostles’  Creed  by  the  term  ‘‘  com- 
munion of  Saints”),  by  which  they  may  in  a sort  recognise 
each  other,  and  so  become  verily  visible  to  each  other  for 
mutual  comfort. 

2.  The  Limits  of  the  Visible  Church,  or  of  the  Church  in 
the  Second  Scriptural  Sense,  are  not  so  easy  to  define ; they 
are  awkward  questions,  these,  of  stake-nets.  It  has  been 
ingeniously  and  plausibly  endeavored  to  make  Baptism  a 
sign  of  admission  into  the  Visible  Church,  but  absurdly  enough; 
for  we  know  that  half  the  baptized  people  in  the  world  are 
very  visible  rogues,  believing  neither  in  God  nor  devil ; and  it 
is  flat  blasphemy  to  call  these  Visible  Christians ; we  also 
know  that  the  Holy  Ghost  was  sometimes  given  before  Bap- 
tism,* and  it  would  be  absurdity  to  call  a man  on  whom  the 
Holy  Ghost  had  fallen,  an  Invisible  Christian.  The  only 
rational  distinction  is  that  which  practically,  though  not  pro- 
fessedly, we  always  assume.  K we  hear  a man  profess  him- 
self a believer  in  God  and  in  Christ,  and  detect  him  in  no 
glaring  and  wilful  violation  of  God’s  law,  we  speak  of  him 
as  a Christian ; and  on  the  other  hand,  if  we  hear  him  or  see 
him  denying  Christ,  either  in  his  words  or  conduct,  we  tacitly 
assume  him  not  to  be  a Christian.  A mawkish  charity  pre- 
vents us  from  outspeaking  in  this  matter,  and  from  earnestly 
endeavoring  to  discern  who  are  Christians  and  who  are  not; 
and  this  I holdf  to  be  one  of  the  chief  sins  of  the  Church  in 

* Acts  X.  44. 

f Let  not  the  reader  be  displeased  with  me  for  these  short  and  apparently 
insolent  statements  of  opinion.  I am  not  writing  insolently,  but  as  shortly  and 
clearly  as  I can;  and  when  I seriously  believe  a thing,  I say  so  in  a few 


12 


NOTES  ON  THE 


the  present  day ; for  thus  wicked  men  are  put  to  no  shame  ^ 
and  better  men  are  encouraged  in  their  failings,  or  caused  to 
hesitate  in  their  virtues,  by  the  example  of  those  whom,  iu 
false  charity,  they  choose  to  call  Christians.  Now,  it  being 
granted  that  it  is  impossible  to  know,  determinedly,  who  are 
Christians  indeed,  that  is  no  reason  for  utter  negligence  in 
separating  the  nominal,  apparent,  or  possible  Christian  from 
the  professed  Pagan  or  enemy  of  God.  We  spend  much 
time  in  arguing  about  efficacy  of  sacraments  and  such  other 
mysteries;  but  we  do  not  act  upon  the  very  certain  tests 
which  are  clear  and  visible.  We  know  that  Christ’s  people 
are  not  thieves — not  liars — not  busybodies — not  dishonest- — 
not  avaricious — not  wasteful — not  cruel.  Let  us  then  get 
ourselves  well  clear  of  thieves — liars — wasteful  people — avari- 
cious people — cheating  people — people  who  do  not  pay  their 
debts.  Let  us  assure  them  that  they,  at  least,  do  not  belong 
to  the  Visible  Church;  and  having  thus  got  that  Church 
into  decent  shape  and  cohesion,  it  will  be  time  to  think  ol 
drawing  the  stake-nets  closer. 

I hold  it  for  a law,  palpable  to  common  sense,  and  which 

words,  leaving  the  reader  to  determine  what  my  belief  is  worth.  But  I do 
not  choose  to  temper  down  every  expression  of  personal  opinion  into  courte- 
ous generalities,  and  so  lose  space,  and  time,  and  intelligibility  at  once.  We 
are  utterly  oppressed  in  these  days  by  our  courtesies,  and  considerations,  and 
compliances,  and  proprieties.  Forgive  me  them,  this  once,  or  rather  let  us 
all  forgive  them  to  each  other,  and  learn  to  speak  plainly  first,  and,  if  it  may 
be,  gracefully  afterwards;  and  not  only  to  speak,  but  to  stand  by  what  we 
have  spoken.  One  of  my  Oxford  friends  heard,  the  other  day,  that  I was 
employed  on  these  notes,  and  forthwith  wrote  to  me,  in  a panic,  not  to  put 
my  name  to  them,  for  fear  I should  “compromise  myself.”  I think  we  are 
most  of  us  compromised  to  some  extent  already,  when  England  has  £er.t 
a Roman  Catholic  minister  to  the  second  city  in  Italy,  and  remains  hers(3ll 
for  a week  without  any  government,  because  her  chief  men  cannot  agree 
upon  the  position  which  a Popish  cardinal  is  to  have  leave  to  occ  ipy  ii 
London. 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


13 


aothing  but  the  cowardice  and  faithlessness  of  the  Churcl 
prevents  it  from  putting  in  practice,  that  the  conviction  of 
any  dishonorable  conduct  or  wilful  crime,  of  any  fraud,  false- 
hood, cruelty,  or  violence,  should  be  ground  for  the  excom- 
munication of  any  man  : — for  his  publicly  declared  separation 
from  the  acknowledged  body  of  the  Visible  Church:  and 
that  he  should  not  be  received  again  therein  without  public 
confession  of  his  crime  and  declaration  of  his  repentance.  It 
this  were  vigorously  enforced,  we  should  soon  have  greater 
purity  of  life  in  the  world,  and  fewer  discussions  about  high 
and  low  churches.  But  before  we  can  obtain  any  idea  of  the 
manner  in  which  such  law  could  be  enforced,  we  have  to  con- 
sider the  second  question,  respecting  the  Authority  of  the 
Church.  Now  Authority  is  twofold:  to  declare  doctrine 
and  to  enforce  discipline ; and  we  have  to  inquire,  therefore, 
in  each  kind, — 

3.  What  is  the  authority  of  the  Invisible  Church  ? Evidently, 
in  matters  of  doctrine,  all  members  of  the  Invisible  Church 
must  have  been,  and  must  ever  be,  at  the  time  of  their  deaths, 
right  in  the  points  essential  to  Salvation.  But,  (A.)  we  cannot 
tell  who  are  members  of  the  Invisible  Church. 

(B.)  We  cannot  collect  evidence  from  deathbeds  in  a clearly 
stated  form. 

(C.)  W e can  -collect  evidence,  in  any  form,  only  from  some 
one  or  two  out  of  every  sealed  thousand  of  the  Invisible  Church. 
Elijah  thought  he  was  alone  in  Israel;  and  yet  there  were 
seven  thousand  invisible  ones  around  him.  Grant  that  we  had 
Elijah’s  intelligence ; and  we  could  only  calculate  on  collecting 
the  evidence  or  opinions  of  the  part  of  the 

Invisible  Church  living  on  earth  at  a given  moment : that  is 
to  say,  the  seven-millionth  or  trillionth  of  its  collective  evidence. 
It  is  very  clear,  therefore,  we  cannot  hope  to  get  rid  of  the 
contradictory  opinions,  and  keep  the  consistent  ones,  by  a 
general  equation.  But,  it  has  been  said  there  are  no  contra- 


14 


NOTES  ON  THE 


dictory  opinions ; the  Church  is  infallible.  There  was  som4 
talk  about  the  infallibility  of  the  Church,  if  I recollect  right 
in  that  letter  of  Mr.  Bennett’s  to  the  Bishop  of  London.  li‘ 
any  Church  be  infallible,  it  is  assuredly  the  Invisible  Church, 
or  Body  of  Christ ; and  infallible  in  the  main  sense  it  must  of 
course  be  by  its  definition.  An  Elect  person  must  be  saved 
and  therefore  cannot  eventually  be  deceived  on  essential  points  • 
so  that  Christ  says  of  the  deception  of  such,  “If  it  were 
possihle^’^^  implying  it  to  be  impossible.  Therefore,  as  we 
said,  if  one  could  get  rid  of  the  variable  opinions  of  the  members 
of  the  Invisible  Church,  the  constant  opinions  would  assuredly 
be  authoritative : but  for  the  three  reasons  above  stated,  we 
cannot  get  at  their  constant  opinions : and  as  for  the  feelings 
and  thoughts  which  they  daily  experience  or  express,  the 
question  of  Infallibility — which  is  practical  only  in  this  bearing 
— is  soon  settled.  Observe  St.  Paul,  and  the  rest  of  the 
Apostles,  write  nearly  all  their  epistles  to  the  Invisible 
Church: — Those  epistles  are  headed, — Romans,  “To  the 
beloved  of  God,  called  to  be  saints 1 Corinthians,  “ To 
them  that  are  sanctified  in  Christ  Jesus;”  2 Corinthians,  “To 
the  saints  in  all  Achaia;”  Ephesians,  “To  the  saints  which  are 
at  Ephesus,  and  to  the  faithful  in  Christ  Jesus  Philippians, 
“To  all  the  saints  which  are  at  Philippi;”  Colossians,  “To 
the  saints  and  faithful  brethren  which  are  at  Colosse ;”  1 and 
2 Thessalonians,  “To  the  Church  of  the  Thessalonians,  which 
is  in  God  the  Father,  and  the  Lord  Jesus ;”  1 and  2 Timothy, 
“ To  his  own  son  in  the  faith  ;”  Titus,  to  the  same ; 1 Peter, 
“ To  the  Strangers,  Elect  according  to  the  foreknowledge  of 
God ;”  2 Peter,  “ To  them  that  have  obtained  like  precious 
faith  with  us;”  2 John,  “To  the  Elect  lady;”  Jude,  “To 
them  that  are  sanctified  by  God  the  Father,  and  preserved  in 
Jesus  Christ  and  called.” 

There  are  thus  fifteen  epistles,  expressly  directed  to  the 
members  of  the  Invisible  Church.  Philemon  and  Hebrews, 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


and  1 and  3 John,  are  evidently  also  so  written,  though  not 
SO  expressly  inscribed.  That  of  James,  and  that  to  the  Gala- 
tians, are  as  evidently  to  the  Visible  Church : the  one  being 
general,  and  the  other  to  persons  ‘‘  removed  from  Him  that 
called  them.”  Missing  out,  therefore,  these  two  epistles,  but 
including  Christ’s  words  to  His  disciples,  we  find  in  the  Scrip-- 
tural  addresses  to  members  of  the  Invisible  Church,  fourteen, 
if  not  more,  direct  injunctions  “not  to  be  deceived.”*  So 
much  for  the  “ Infallibility  of  the  Church.” 

Now,  one  could  put  up  with  Puseyism  more  patiently,  if  its 
fallacies  arose  merely  from  peculiar  temperaments  yielding  to 
peculiar  temptations.  But  its  bold  refusals  to  read  plain 
English ; its  elaborate  adjustments  of  tight  bandages  over  its 
own  eyes,  as  wholesome  preparation  for  a walk  among  traps 
and  pitfalls ; its  daring  trustfulness  in  its  own  clairvoyance  all 
the  time,  and  declarations  that  every  pit  it  falls  into  is  a 
seventh  heaven ; and  that  it  is  pleasant  and  profitable  to  break 
its  legs ; — with  all  this  it  is  difficult  to  have  patience.  One 
thinks  of  the  highwayman  with  his  eyes  shut,  in  the  Arabian 
Nights ; and  wonders  whether  any  kind  of  scourging  would 
prevail  upon  the  Anglican  highwayman  to  open  “ first  one  and 
then  the  other.” 

4.  So  much,  then,  I repeat  for  the  infallibility  of  the  i>ivisible 
Church,  and  for  its  consequent  authority.  Now,  if  we  want  to 
ascertain  what  infallibility  and  authority  there  is  in  the  Visible 
Church,  we  have  to  alloy  the  small  wisdom  and  the  light  weight 
of  Invisible  Christians,  Avith  large  per-centage  of  the  false  wis- 
dom and  contrary  weight  of  Undetected  Anti- Christians. 
Which  alloy  makes  up  the  current  coin  of  opinions  in  the 
Visible  Church,  having  such  value  as  we  may  choose — its 
nature  being  properly  assayed — to  attach  to  it. 

* Matt.  xxiv.  4;  Mark  xiii.  5;  Luke  xxi.  8;  1 Cor.  iii.  18,  vi.  9,  xv.  33 
Eph.  iv.  14,  V.  6 ; Col.  ii.  8 j 2 Thess.  ii.  3 ; Heb.  iii.  13 ; 1 John  L 8 uL  7 
2 John  7,  8. 


16 


NOTES  ON  THE 


There  is,  therefore,  in  matters  of  doctrine,  no  such  thing  as 
the  Authority  of  the  Church.  We  might  as  well  talk  of  the 
authority  of  the  morning  cloud.  There  may  be  light  in  it, 
but  the  light  is  not  of  it ; and  it  diminishes  the  hght  that  it 
gets ; and  lets  less  of  it  through  than  it  receives,  Christ  being 
its  sun.  Or,  we  might  as  well  talk  of  the  authority  of  a flock 
sheep — for  the  Church  is  a body  to  be  taught  and  fed,  not 
to  teach  and  feed:  and  of  all  sheep  that  are  fed  on  the  earth, 
Christ’s  Sheep  are  the  most  simple  (the  children  of  this  gene- 
ration are  wiser)  : always  losing  themselves ; doing  little  else 
in  this  world  hut  lose  themselves  ; — never  finding  themselves  ; 
always  found  by  Some  One  else ; getting  perpetually  into 
sloughs,  and  snows,  and  bramble  thickets,  like  to  die  there, 
but  for  their  Shepherd,  who  is  for  ever  finding  them  and 
bearing  them  back,  with  torn  fleeces  and  eyes  full  of  fear. 

This,  then,  being  the  No-Authority  of  the  Church  in  matter 
of  Doctrine,  what  Authority  has  it  in  matters  of  Discipline  ? 

Much,  every  way.  The  sheep  have  natural  and  wholesome 
power  (however  far  scattered  they  may  be  from  their  proper 
fold)  of  getting  together  in  orderly  knots;  following  each 
other  on  trodden  sheepwalks,  and  holding  their  heads  all  one 
way  when  they  see  strange  dogs  coming ; as  well  as  of  casting 
out  of  their  company  any  whom  they  see  reason  to  suspect  of 
not  being  right  sheep,  and  being  among  them  for  no  good. 
All  which  things  must  be  done  as  the  time  and  place  require, 
and  by  common  consent.  A path  may  be  good  at  one  time 
of  day  which  is  bad  at  another,  or  after  a change  of  wind ; and 
a position  may  be  very  good  for  sudden  defence,  which  would 
be  very  stiff  and  awkward  for  feeding  in.  And  common  con 
sent  must  often  be  of  such  and  such  a company  on  this  or  that 
hillside,  in  this  or  that  particular  danger, — not  of  all  the  sheep 
in  the  world  : and  the  consent  may  either  be  literally  common^ 
and  expressed  in  assembly,  or  it  may  be  to  appoint  officers 
over  the  rest,  with  such  and  such  trusts  of  the  common 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


1*? 


authority,  to  be  used  for  the  common  advantage.  Conviction 
of  crimes,  and  excommunication,  for  instance,  could  neither  be 
effected  except  before,  or  by  means  of,  officers  of  some 
appointed  authority. 

5.  This,  then,  brings  us  to  our  fifth  question.  What  is  the 
Authority  of  the  Clergy  over  the  Church? 

The  first  clause  of  the  question  must  evidently  be, — Who 
are  the  Clergy?  and  it  is  not  easy  to  answer  this  without 
begging  the  rest  of  the  question. 

For  instance,  I think  I can  hear  certain  people  answering, 
That  the  Clergy  are  folk  of  three  kinds, — Bishops,  who  over- 
look the  Church;  Priests,  who  sacrifice  for  the  Church; 
Deacons,  who  minister  to  the  Church : thus  assuming  in  their 
answer,  that  the  Church  is  to  be  sacrificed  /br,  and  that  people 
cannot  overlook  and  minister  to  her  at  the  same  time  ; which 
is  going  much  too  fast.  I think,  however,  if  we  define  the 
Clergy  to  be  the  “ Spiritual  Officers  of  the  Church,” — meaning, 
by  Officers,  merely  People  in  office, — we  shall  have  a title  safe 
enough  and  general  enough  to  begin  with,  and  corresponding 
too,  pretty  well,  with  St.  Paul’s  general  expression  ‘Trfoio'T-aiuLsvoi, 
in  Rom.  xii.  8,  and  1 Thess.  v.  13. 

Now,  respecting  these  Spiritual  Officers,  or  office-bearers,  we 
have  to  inquire,  first.  What  their  Office  or  Authority  is,  or 
should  be  ; secondly.  Who  gave,  or  should  give,  them  that 
Authority  ? That  is  to  say,  first.  What  is,  or  should  be  the 
nature  of  their  office ; and  secondly.  What  the  extent  or  force 
of  their  authority  in  it  ? for  this  last  depends  mainly  on  its 
derivation. 

First,  then,  What  should  be  the  offices,  and  of  what  kind 
should  be  the  authority  of  the  Clergy  ? 

I have  hitherto  referred  to  the  Bible  for  an  answer  to  every 
question.  I do  so  again ; and  behold,  the  Bible  gives  me  no 
answer.  I defy  you  to  answer  me  from  the  Bible.  You  can 
only  guess,  and  dimly  conjecture,  what  the  offices  of  the 


18 


NOTES  ON  THE 


Clergy  were  in  the  first  century.  You  cannot  show  me  a sin 
gie  command  as  to  what  they  shall  be.  Strange,  this ; the 
Bible  give  no  answer  to  so  apparently  important  a question ! 
God  surely  would  not  have  left  His  word  without  an  answei 
to  anything  His  children  ought  to  ask.  Surely  it  must  be  a 
ridiculous  question — a question  we  ought  never  to  have  put^ 
or  thought  of  putting.  Let  us  think  of  it  again  a little.  To 
be  sure, — it  Is  a ridiculous  question,  and  we  should  be 
ashamed  of  ourselves  for  having  put  it : — What  should  be  the 
offices  of  the  Clergy  ? That  is  to  say.  What  are  the  possible 
spiritual  necessities  which  at  any  time  may  arise  in  the  Church, 
and  by  what  means  and  men  are  they  to  be  supplied ; — evi- 
dently an  infinite  question.  Different  kinds  of  necessities 
must  be  met  by  different  authorities,  constituted  as  the  neces- 
sities arise.  Robinson  Crusoe,  in  his  island,  wants  no  Bishop, 
and  makes  a thunderstorm  do  for  an  Evangelist.  The  Uni- 
versity of  Oxford  would  be  ill  off  without  its  Bishop ; but 
wants  an  Evangelist  besides;  and  that  forthwith.  The 
authority  which  the  Vaudois  shepherds  need,  is  of  Barnabas, 
the  son  of  Consolation ; the  authority  which  the  City  of  Lon- 
don needs,  is  of  James,  the  son  of  Thunder.  Let  us  then  alter 
the  form  of  our  question,  and  put  it  to  the  Bible  thus ; What 
are  the  necessities  most  likely  to  arise  in  the  Church ; and 
may  they  be  best  met  by  different  men,  or  in  great  part  by 
the  same  men  acting  in  different  capacities?  and  are  the 
names  attached  to  their  oflSces  of  any  consequence  ? Ah,  the 
Bible  answers  now,  and  that  loudly.  The  Church  is  built  or? 
the  Foundation  of  the  Apostles  and  Prophets,  Jesus  Christ 
himself  being  the  corner-stone.  Well;  We  cannot  have  two 
foundations,  so  we  can  have  no  more  Apostles  or  Prophets  : 
— then,  as  for  the  other  needs  of  the  Church  in  its  edifying 
upon  this  foundation,  there  are  all  manner  of  things  to  be 
done  daily ; — rebukes  to  be  given ; comfort  to  be  brought ; 
Scripture  to  be  explained  ; warning  to  be  enforced ; threaten 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


19 


ings  to  be  executed;  charities  to  be  administered;  and  the 
men  who  do  these  things  are  called,  and  call  themselves,  with 
absolute  indifference.  Deacons,  Bishops,  Elders,  Evangelists, 
according  to  what  they  are  doing  at  the  time  of  speaking. 
St.  Paul  almost  always  calls  himself  a deacon,  St.  Peter  calls 
himself  an  elder,  1 Pet.  v.  1,  and  Timothy,  generally  under' 
stood  to  be  addressed  as  a bishop,  is  called  a deacon  in  1 Tim. 
\v.  6 — forbidden  to  rebuke  an  elder,  in  v.  1,  and  exhorted  to 
do  the  work  of  an  evangelist,  in  2 Tim.  iv.  5.  But  there  is 
one  thing  which,  as  officers,  or  as  separate  from  the  rest  of  the 
flock,  they  never  call  themselves, — which  it  would  have  been 
impossible,  as  so  separate,  they  ever  should  have  called  them- 
selves ; that  is — Priests, 

It  would  have  been  just  as  possible  for  the  Clergy  of  the 
early  Church  to  call  themselves  Levites,  as  to  call  themselves 
(ex  officio)  Priests.  The  whole  function  of  Priesthood  was, 
on  Christmas  morning,  at  once  and  for  ever  gathered  into  His 
Person  who  was  born  at  Bethlehem ; and  thenceforward,  all 
who  are  united  with  Him,  and  who  with  Him  make  sacrifice 
of  themselves;  that  is  to  say,  all  members  of  the  Invisible 
Church,  become  at  the  instant  of  their  conversion.  Priests;  and 
are  so  called  in  1 Pet.  ii.  5,  and  Rev.  i.  6,  and  xx.  6,  where, 
observe,  there  is  no  possibility  of  limiting  the  expression  to 
the  Clergy ; the  conditions  of  Priesthood  being  simply  having 
been  loved  by  Christ,  and  washed  in  His  blood.  The  blasphe- 
mous claim  on  the  part  of  the  Clergy  of  being  more  Priests 
than  the  godly  laity — that  is  to  say,  of  having  a higher  Holi- 
ness than  the  Holiness  of  being  one  with  Christ, — is  alto- 
gether a Romanist  heresy,  dragging  after  it,  or  having  its 
origin  in,  the  other  heresies  respecting  the  sacrificial  power 
of  the  Church  officer,  and  his  repeating  the  oblation  of  Christ, 
and  so  having  power  to  absolve  from  sin : — ^with  all  the  other 
endless  and  miserable  falsehoods  of  the  Papal  hierarcy ; false- 
hoods for  which,  that  there  might  be  no  shadow  of  excuse,  it 


20 


NOTES  ON  THE 


has  been  ordained  by  the  Holy  Spirit  that  no  Christian  minis 
ter  shall  once  call  himself  a Priest  from  one  end  of  the  Ne^v 
Testament  to  the  other,  except  together  with  his  flock ; and 
so  far  from  the  idea  of  any  peculiar  sanctification,  belonging 
to  the  Clergy,  ever  entering  the  Apostles’  minds,  we  actually 
Gild  St.  Paul  defending  himself  against  the  possible  imputation 
cf  inferiority : ‘‘  If  any  man  trust  to  himself  that  be  is  Christ’s, 
let  him  of  himself  think  this  again,  that,  as  he  is  Christ’s,  even 
so  are  we  Christ’s”  (2  Cor.  x.  7).  As  for  the  unhappy  reten- 
tion of  the  term  Priest  in  our  English  Prayer-book,  so  long  as 
it  was  understood  to  mean  nothing  but  an  upper  order  of 
Church  officer,  licensed  to  tell  the  congregation  from  the  read- 
ing-desk, what  (for  the  rest)  they  might,  one  would  think, 
have  known  without  being  told, — that  God  pardoneth  all 
them  that  truly  repent,” — there  was  little  harm  in  it;  but, 
now  that  this  order  of  Clergy  begins  to  presume  upon  a title 
which,  if  it  mean  anything  at  all,  is  simply  short  for  Presbyter, 
and  has  no  more  to  do  with  the  word  Hiereus  than  with  the 
word  Levite,  it  is  time  that  some  order  should  be  taken  both 
with  the  book  and  the  Clergy.  For  instance,  in  that  danger- 
ous compound  of  halting  poetry  with  hollow  Divinity,  called 
the  Lyra  Apostolica,  we  find  much  versification  on  the  sin  of 
Korah  and  his  company : with  suggested  parallel  between  the 
Christian  and  Levitical  Churches,  and  threatening  that  there 
are  ‘‘Judgment  Fires,  for  high-voiced  Korahs  in  their  day.” 
There  are  indeed  such  fires.  But  when  Moses  said,  “ a Pro- 
phet shall  the  Lord  raise  up  unto  you,  like  unto  me,”  did  he 
mean  the  writer  who  signs  7 in  the  Lyra  Apostolica  ? The 
office  of  the  Lawgiver  and  Priest  is  now  for  ever  gathered 
into  One  Mediator  between  God  and  man;  and  they  are 
guilty  of  the  sin  of  Korah  who  blasphemously  would  associate 
themselves  in  his  Mediatorsbip. 

As  for  the  passages  in  the  “ Ordering  of  Priests”  and 
“ Visitation  of  the  Sick”  respecting  Absolution,  they  are  evi 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


21 


dently  pure  Romanism,  and  might  as  well  not  be  there,  for 
any  practical  effect  which  they  have  on  the  consciences  of  the 
Laity ; and  had  much  better  not  be  there,  as  regards  their 
effect  on  the  minds  of  the  Clergy.  It  is  indeed  true  that 
Christ  promised  absolving  power  to  His  Apostles:  He  also 
promised  to  those  who  believed,  that  they  should  take  up  ser 
pents,  and  if  they  drank  any  deadly  thing,  it  should  not  hurt 
them.  His  words  were  fulfilled  literally;  but  those  who 
would  extend  their  force  to  beyond  the  Apostolic  times,  must 
extend  both  promises,  or  neither. 

Although,  however,  the  Protestant  laity  do  not  often  admit 
the  absolving  power  of  their  clergy,  they  are  but  too  apt  to 
yield,  in  some  sort,  to  the  impression  of  their  greater  sanctifica- 
tion ; and  from  this  instantly  results  the  unhappy  consequence 
that  the  sacred  character  of  the  Layman  himself  is  forgotten, 
and  his  own  Ministerial  duty  is  neglected.  Men  not  in  office 
in  the  Church  suppose  themselves,  on  that  ground,  in  a sort 
unholy  ; and  that,  therefore,  they  may  sin  with  more  excuse, 
and  be  idle  or  impious  with  less  danger,  than  the  Clergy: 
especially  they  consider  themselves  relieved  from  all  minis- 
terial function,  and  as  permitted  to  devote  their  whole  time 
and  energy  to  the  business  of  this  world.  No  mistake  can 
possibly  be  greater.  Every  member  of  the  Church  is  equally 
bound  to  the  service  of  the  Head  of  the  Church;  and  tha. 
service  is  pre-eminently  the  saving  of  souls.  There  is  not  a 
moment  of  a man’s  active  life  in  which  he  may  not  be  indi- 
rectly preaching ; and  throughout  a great  part  of  his  life  he 
ought  to  be  directly  preaching,  and  teaching  both  strangers  ani 
fiends ; his  children,  his  servants,  and  all  who  in  any  way  are 
put  under  him,  being  given  to  him  as  especial  objects  of  his 
ministration.  So  that  the  only  difference  between  a Church 
officer  and  a lay  member,  is  either  a wider  degree  of  authority 
given  to  the  former,  as  apparently  a wiser  and  better  man,  or 
a special  appointment  to  some  office  more  easily  discharged 


22 


NOTES  ON  THE 


by  one  person  than  by  many : as,  for  instance,  the  serving  oi 
tables  by  the  deacons;  the  authority  or  appointment  being,  in 
either  case,  commonly  signified  by  a marked  separation  from 
the  rest  of  the  Church,  and  the  privilege  or  power*  of  being 
maintained  by  the  rest  of  the  Church,  without  being  forced  to 
labor  with  his  hands  or  encumber  himself  with  any  temporal 
concerns. 

Now,  putting  out  of  question  the  serving  of  tables,  and 
other  such  duties,  respecting  which  there  is  no  debate,  we 
shall  find  the  offices  of  the  Clergy,  whatever  names  we  may 
choose  to  give  to  those  who  discharge  them,  falling  mainly 
into  two  great  heads : — Teaching  ; including  doctrine,  warn* 
ing,  and  comfort : Discipline ; including  reproof  and  direct 
administration  of  punishment.  Either  of  which  functions 
would  naturally  become  vested  in  single  persons,  to  the 
exclusion  of  others,  as  a mere  matter  of  convenience : 
whether  those  persons  were  wiser  and  better  than  others 
or  not : and  respecting  each  of  which,  and  the  authority 
required  for  its  fitting  discharge,  a short  inquiry  must  be 
separately  made. 

I.  Teaching. — ^It  appears  natural  and  wise  that  certain  men 
should  be  set  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  Church  that  they 
may  make  Theology  the  study  of  their  lives : and  that  they 
should  be  thereto  instructed  specially  in  the  Hebrew  and 
Greek  tongues ; and  have  entire  leisure  granted  them  for  the 
study  of  the  Scriptures,  and  for  obtaining  general  knowledge 
of  the  grounds  of  Faith,  and  best  modes  of  its  defence 
against  all  heretics:  and  it  seems  evidently  right  also,  that 
with  this  Scholastic  duty  should  be  joined  the  Pastoral  duty 
<»f  constant  visitation  and  exhortation  to  the  people ; for, 
clearly,  the  Bible,  and  the  truths  of  Divinity  in  general,  can 
only  he  understood  rightly  in  their  practical  application;  and 


♦ i^ovna,  in  1 Cor.  ix.  12.  2 Thess.  iii.  9. 


CONSTRUCTIO^^^  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


23 


clearly,  also,  a man  spending  his  time  constantly  in  spiritual 
ministrations,  must  be  better  able,  on  any  given  occasion,  to 
dea^  powerfully  with  the  human  heart  than  one  unpractised 
ill  such  matters.  The  unity  of  Knowledge  and  Love,  both 
devoted  altogether  to  the  service  of  Christ  and  his  Churcli| 
marks  the  true  Christian  Minister ; who  I believe,  whenevei 
he  has  existed,  has  never  failed  to  receive  due  and  fitting 
revei-ence  from  all  men, — of  whatever  character  or  opinion ; 
and  I believe  that  if  all  those  who  profess  to  be  such,  were  such 
indeed,  there  would  never  be  question  of  their  authority  more. 

But,  whatever  influence  they  may  have  over  the  Church, 
their  authority  never  supersedes  that  of  either  the  intellect  or 
tho  conscience  of  the  simplest  of  its  lay  members.  They  can 
assist  those  members  in  the  search  for  truth,  or  comfort  their 
over-worn  and  doubtful  minds ; they  can  even  assure  them 
that  they  are  in  the  way  of  truth,  or  that  pardon  is  within 
their  reach : but  they  can  neither  manifest  the  truth,  nor 
grant  the  pardon.  Truth  is  to  be  discovered,  and  Pardon  to 
be  won  for  every  man  by  himself.  This  is  evident  from 
innumerable  texts  of  Scripture,  but  chiefly  from  those  which 
exhort  every  man  to  seek  after  Truth,  and  which  connect 
knowing  with  doing.  We  are  to  seek  after  knowledge  as 
silver,  and  search  for  her  as  for  hid  treasures ; therefore,  from 
every  man  she  must  be  naturally  hid,  and  the  discovery  of 
her  is  to  be  the  reward  only  of  personal  search.  The  kingdom 
of  God  is  as  treasure  hid  in  a field  ; and  of  those  who  profess 
to  help  us  to  seek  for  it,  we  are  not  to  put  confidence  in  those 
who  say, — Here  is  the  treasure,  we  have  found  it,  and  have  it^ 
and  will  give  you  some  of  it ; but  to  those  who  say, — We 
think  that  is  a good  place  to  dig,  and  you  will  dig  most  easily 
in  ‘such  and  such  a way. 

Farther,  it  has  been  promised  that  if  such  earnest  search 
be  made.  Truth  shall  be  discovered : as  much  truth,  that  is, 
as  is  necessary  for  the  person  seeking.  These,  therefore,  1 


24 


NOTES  ON  THE 


hold,  for  two  fundamental  principles  of  religion, — that,  vvithoivi 
seeking,  truth  cannot  be  known  at  all ; and  that,  by  seeking, 
it  may  be  discovered  by  the  simplest.  I say,  without  seeking 
it  cannot  be  known  at  all.  It  can  neither  be  declared  from 
pulpits,  nor  set  down  in  Articles,  nor  in  any  wise  “prepared 
and  sold”  in  packages,  ready  for  use.  Truth  must  be  ground 
for  every  man  by  himself  out  of  its  husk,  with  such  help  a^ 
he  can  get,  indeed,  but  not  without  stern  labor  of  his  own. 
In  what  science  is  knowledge  to  be  had  cheap  ? or  truth  to 
be  told  over  a velvet  cushion,  in  half  an  hour’s  talk  every 
seventh  day  ? Can  you  learn  chemistry  so  ? — zoology  ? — 
anatomy  ? and  do  you  expect  to  penetrate  the  secret  of  all 
secrets,  and  to  know  that  whose  price  is  above  rubies ; and 
of  which  the  depth  saith, — It  is  not  in  me,  in  so  easy  fashion  ? 
There  are  doubts  in  this  matter  which  evil  spirits  darken  with 
their  wings,  and  that  is  true  of  all  such  doubts  which  we 
were  told  long  ago — they  can  “ be  ended  by  action  alone.”* 

As  surely  as  we  live,  this  truth  of  truths  can  only  so  be 
discerned : to  those  who  act  on  what  they  know,  more  shall 
be  revealed ; and  thus,  if  any  man  will  do  His  will,  he  shall 
know  the  doctrine  whether  it  be  of  God.  Any  man: — not 
the  man  who  has  most  means  of  knowing,  who  has  the 
subtlest  brains,  or  sits  under  the  most  orthodox  preacher,  or 
has  his  library  fullest  of  most  orthodox  books — but  the  man 
who  strives  to  know,  who  takes  God  at  His  word,  and  ?ets 

* (Carlyle,  Past  and  Present,  Chap  xi.)  Can  anything  be  more  striking 
than  the  repeated  warnings  of  St.  Paul  against  strife  of  words;  and  his 
distinct  setting  forth  of  Action  as  the  only  true  means  of  attaining  knowleJg< 
of  the  truth,  and  the  only  sign  of  men’s  possessing  the  true  faith.  Compart 
] Timothy  vi.  4,  20,  (the  latter  verse  especially,  in  connection  with  thr 
previous  three,)  and  2 Timothy  ii.  14,  19,  22,  23,  tracing  the  connection  hort 
also;  add  Titus  i.  10,  14,  16,  noting  “m  works  they  deny  him,”  and  Titus  iii. 
8,  9,  “ affirm  constantly  that  they  be  careful  to  maintain  good  works ; but 
avoid  foolish  questions;”  and  finally,  1 Timothy  i.  4 — 7:  a passage  whicL 
seems  to  have  been  especially  written  for  these  times. 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLOS. 


25 


himself  to  dig  up  the  heavenly  mystery,  roots  and  all,  before 
sunset,  and  the  night  come,  when  no  man  can  work.  Beside 
such  a man,  God  stands  in  more  and  more  visible  presence  as 
he  toils,  and  teaches  him  that  which  no  preacher  can  teach — 
DO  earthly  authority  gainsay.  By  such  a man,  the  preacher 
must  himself  be  judged. 

Doubt  you  this  ? There  is  nothing  more  certain  nor  clear 
throughout  the  Bible:  the  Apostles  themselves  appeal  con- 
stantly to  their  flocks,  and  actually  claim  judgment  from 
them,  as  deserving  it,  and  having  a right  to  it,  rather  than 
discouraging  it.  But,  first  notice  the  way  in  which  the 
discovery  of  truth  is  spoken  of  in  the  Old  Testament : ‘‘  Evil 
men  understand  not  judgment ; but  they  that  seek  the  Lord 
understand  all  things,”  Proverbs  xxviii.  5.  God  overthroweth, 
not  merely  the  transgressor  or  the  wicked,  but  even  the 
words  of  the  transgressor,”  Proverbs  xxii.  12,  and  the 
counsel  of  the  wicked,”  Job  v.  13,  xxi.  16 ; observe  again,  in 
Proverbs  xxiv.  4,  ‘^My  son,  eat  thou  honey,  because  it  is 
good — so  shall  the  knowledge  of  wisdom  be  unto  thy  soul, 
when  thou  hast  found  there  shall  be  a reward ;”  and  again. 
What  man  is  he  that  feareth  the  Lord  ? him  shall  he  teach 
in  the  way  that  he  shall  choose;”  so  Job  xxxii.  8,  and 
multitudes  of  places  more ; and  then,  with  all  these  places, 
which  express  the  definite  and  personal  operation  of  the  Spirit 
of  God  on  every  one  of  His  people,  compare  the  place  in 
Isaiah,  which  speaks  of  the  contrary  of  this  human  teaching : 
a passage  which  seems  as  if  it  had  been  written  for  this  very 
day  and  hour.  “ Because  their  fear  towards  me  is  taught  bv 
the  precept  of  men  ; therefore,  behold  the  wisdom  of  theii 
wise  men  shall  perish,  and  the  understanding  of  their  prudent 
men  shall  be  hid.”  (xxix.  13,  14.)  Then  take  the  New 
Testament,  and  observe  how  St.  Paul  himself  speaks  of  the 
Romans,  even  as  hardly  needing  his  epistle,  but  able  to  ad- 
monish one  another ; ‘‘  Nevertheless^  brethren^  I have  written 

2 


26 


NOTES  ON  THE 


the  more  boldly  unto  you  in  some  sort^  as  putting  you  if 
mind?"^  (xv.  15.)  Any  one,  we  should  have  thought,  might 
have  done  as  much  as  this,  and  yet  St.  Paul  increases  the 
modesty  of  it  as  he  goes  on  ; for  he  claims  the  right  of  doing 
as  much  as  this,  only  ‘^because  of  the  grace  given  to  me  of 
God,  that  I should  be  the  minister  of  Jesus  Christ  to  the 
Gentiles.”  Then  compare  2 Cor.  v.  11,  where  he  appeals  to 
the  consciences  of  the  people  for  the  manifestation  of  his 
having  done  his  duty ; and  observe  in  verse  21  of  that,  and  1 
of  the  next  chapter,  the  pray  ” and  beseech,”  not  “ com- 
mand and  again,  in  chapter  vi.  verse  4,  ‘‘  approving  ourselves 
as  the  ministers  of  God.”  But  the  most  remarkable  passage 
of  all  is  2 Cor.  iii.  1,  whence  it  appears  that  the  churches 
were  actually  in  the  habit  of  giving  letters  of  recommendation 
to  their  ministers ; and  St.  Paul  dispenses  with  such  letters, 
not  by  virtue  of  his  Apostolic  authority,  but  because  the 
power  of  his  preaching  was  enough  manifested  in  the  Corin- 
thians themselves.  And  these  passages  are  all  the  more 
forcible,  because  if  in  any  of  them  St.  Paul  had  claimed 
absolute  authority  over  the  Church  as  a teacher,  it  was  no 
more  than  we  should  have  expected  him  to  claim,  nor  could 
his  doing  so  have  in  anywise  justified  a successor  in  the  same 
claim.  But  now  that  he  has  not  claimed  it — who,  following 
him,  shall  dare  to  claim  it  ? And  the  consideration  of  the 
necessity  of  joining  expressions  of  the  most  exemplary  humi- 
lity, which  were  to  be  the  example  of  succeeding  ministers, 
with  such  assertion  of  Divine  authority  as  should  secure 
acceptance  for  the  epistle  itself  in  the  sacred  canon,  sufficiently 
accounts  for  the  apparent  inconsistencies  which  occur  in  2 
Thess.  iii.  14,  and  other  such  texts. 

So  much,  then,  for  the  authority  of  the  Clergy  in  matters 
of  Doctrine.  Next,  what  is  their  authority  in  matters  of  Dis- 
cipline. It  must  evidently  be  very  great,  even  if  it  were 
derived  from  the  people  alone,  and  merely  vested  in  the  cleri 


CONSTKUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS.  2) 

cal  officers  as  the  executors  of  their  ecclesiastical  judgn.ents, 
and  general  overseers  of  all  the  Church.  But  granting,  as  we 
must  presently,  the  minister  to  hold  office  directly  from  God, 
his  authority  of  discipline  becomes  very  great  indeed ; how 
great,  it  seems  to  me  most  difficult  to  determine,  because  I do 
not  understand  what  St.  Paul  means  by  delivering  a man 
to  Satan  for  the  destruction  of  the  flesh.”  Leaving  this  ques- 
tion, however,  as  much  too  hard  for  casual  examination,  it 
seems  indisputable  that  the  authority  of  the  Ministers  or 
court  of  Ministers  should  extend  to  the  pronouncing  a man 
Excommunicate  for  certain  crimes  against  the  Church,  as  well 
as  for  all  crimes  punishable  by  ordinary  law.  There  ought,  I 
think,  to  be  an  ecclesiastical  code  of  laws  ; and  a man  ought  to 
have  jury  trial,  accoi'ding  to  this  code,  before  an  ecclesiastical 
judge ; in  which,  if  he.  were  found  guilty,  as  of  lying,  or  dis- 
honesty, or  cruelty,  much  more  of  any  actually  committed 
violent  crime,  he  should  be  pronounced  Excommunicate ; 
refused  the  Sacrament ; and  have  his  name  written  in  some 
public  place  as  an  excommunicate  person  until  he  had  publicly 
confessed  his  sin  and  besought  pardon  of  God  for  it.  The  jury 
should  always  be  of  the  laity,  and  no  penalty  should  be  enforced 
in  an  ecclesiastical  court  except  this  of  excommunication. 

This  proposal  may  sound  strange  to  many  persons ; but 
assuredly  this,  if  not  much  more  than  this,  is  commanded  in 
Scripture,  first  in  the  (much  abused)  text,  Tell  it  unto  the 
Church;”  and  most  clearly  in  1 Cor.  v.  11 — 13  ; 2 Thess.  iii. 
6 and  14 ; 1 Tim.  v.  8 and  20 ; and  Titus  iii.  10 ; from  which 
passages  we  also  know  the  two  proper  degrees  of  the  penalty 
For  Christ  says.  Let  him  who  refuses  to  hear  the  Church,  “be 
unto  thee  as  an  heathen  man  and  a publican.”  But  Christ 
ministered  to  the  heathen,  and  sat  at  meat  with  the  publican ; 
only  always  with  declared  or  implied  expression  of  their 
inferiority;  here,  therefore,  is  one  degree  of  excommunication 
for  persons  who  “offend”  their  brethren;  committing  some 


28 


NOTES  ON  THE 


minor  fault  against  them ; and  who,  having  been  pronounced 
in  error  by  the  body  of  the  Church,  refuse  to  confess  theii 
fault  or  repair  it ; who  are  then  to  be  no  longer  considered 
members  of  the  Church ; and  their  recovery  to  the  body  of  it 
is  to  be  sought  exactly  as  it  would  be  in  the  case  of  a heathen. 
But  covetous  persons,  railers,  extortioners,  idolaters,  and 
those  guilty  of  other  gross  crimes,  are  to  be  entirely  cut  off 
from  the  company  of  the  belieyers ; and  we  are  not  so  much 
as  to  eat  with  them.  This  last  penalty,  however,  would 
require  to  be  strictly  guarded,  that  it  might  not  be  abused  in 
the  infiiction  of  it,  as  it  has  been  by  the  Romanists.  We  are 
not,  indeed,  to  eat  with  them,  but  we  may  exercise  all 
Christian  charity  towards  them,  and  give  them  to  eat,  if  we 
see  them  in  hunger,  as  we  ought  to  all  our  enemies ; only  we 
are  to  consider  them  distinctly  as  our  enemies : that  is  to  say, 
enemies  of  our  Master  Christ ; and  servants  of  Satan. 

As  for  the  rank  or  name  of  the  officers  in  whom  the  authori- 
ties, either  of  teaching  or  discipline,  are  to  be  vested,  they  are 
left  undetermined  by  Scripture.  I have  heard  it  said  by  men 
who  know  their  Bible  far  better  than  I,  that  careful  examination 
may  detect  evidence  of  the  existence  of  three  orders  of  Clergy 
in  the  Church.  This  may  be;  but  one  thing  is  very  clear, 
without  any  laborious  examination,  that  “ bishop”  and  “ elder” 
sometimes  mean  the  same  thing,  as,  indisputably,  in  Titus  i 
5 and  7,  and  1 Pet.  v.  1 and  2,  and  that  the  office  of  the 
bishop  or  overseer  was  one  of  considerably  less  importance 
than  it  is  with  us.  This  is  palpably  evident  from  1 Timothy 
iii.,  for  what  divine  among  us,  writing  of  episcopal  proprieties, 
would  think  of  saying  that  bishops  must  not  be  given  to 
wine,”  must  be  “no  strikers,”  and  must  not  be  “novices?*’ 
We  are  not  in  the  habit  of  making  bishops  of  novices  in  these 
days ; and  it  would  be  much  better  that,  like  the  early  Church, 
we  sometimes  ran  the  risk  of  doing  so;  for  the  fact  is  we  have 
QOt  bishops  enough — by  some  hundreds.  The  idea  of  over 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


2£ 


seership  ha^  been  practically  lost  sight  of,  its  fulfilment  having 
gradually  become  physically  impossible,  for  want  of  mors 
bishops.  The  duty  of  a bishop  is,  without  doubt,  to  be  acces- 
sible fro  the  humblest  clergymen  of  his  diocese,  and  to  desire 
veiy  earnestly  that  all  of  them  should  be  in  the  habit  of 
referring  to  him  in  all  cases  of  difficulty  ; if  they  do  not  do 
this  of  their  own  accord,  it  is  evidently  his  duty  to  visit  them; 
live  with  them  sometimes,  and  join  in  their  ministrations  to 
their  flocks,  so  as  to  know  exactly  the  capacities,  and  habits 
of  life  of  each ; and  if  any  of  them  complained  of  this  or  that 
difficulty  with  tlieir  congregations,  the  bishop  should  be  ready 
to  go  down  to  help  them,  preach  for  them,  write  genera! 
epistles  to  their  people,  and  so  on : besides  this,  he  should  of 
course  be  watchful  of  their  errors — ready  to  hear  complaints 
from  their  congregations  of  inefficiency  or  aught  else ; besides 
having  general  superintendence  of  all  the  charitable  institutions 
and  schools  in  his  diocese,  and  good  knowledge  of  whatever 
was  going  on  in  theological  matters,  both  all  over  the  kingdom 
and  on  the  continent.  This  is  the  work  of  a right  overseer  ; 
and  I leave  the  reader  to  calculate  how  many  additional 
bishops — and  those  hard-working  men,  too — we  should  need 
to  have  it  done  even  decently.  Then  our  present  bishops 
might  all  become  archbishops  with  advantage,  and  have 
general  authority  over  the  rest.* 

* I leave,  in  the  main  text,  the  abstract  question  of  the  fitness  of  Plpis- 
copacy  unapproached,  not  feeling  any  call  to  speak  of  it  at  length  at  present ; 
all  that  I feel  necessary  to  be  said  is,  that  bishops  being  granted,  it  is  clear 
that  we  have  too  few  to  do  their  work.  But  the  argument  from  the  practice 
of  the  Primitive  Church  appears  to  me  to  be  of  erroneous  weight, — nor  have 
I ever  heard  any  rational  plea  alleged  against  Episcopacy,  except  that,  lik^ 
other  things,  it  is  capable  of  abuse,  and  had  sometimes  been  abused ; and  as, 
altogether  clearly  and  indisputably,  there  is  described  in  the  Bible  an  epiri 
copal  office,  distinct  from  the  merely  ministerial  one ; and,  apparently,  also  an 
Episcopal  officer  attached  to  each  church,  and  distinguished  in  the  Revelations 
as  an  Angel,  I hold  the  resistance  of  the  Scotch  Presbyterian  Church  to  Epis 
copacy  to  be  unscriptural,  futile,  and  schismatic. 


30 


NOTES  ON  THE 


As  to  the  mode  in  which  the  officers  of  the  Church  should 
be  elected  or  appointed,  I do  not  feel  it  my  business  tc 
S2iy  anything  at  present,  nor  much  respecting  the  extent  of 
their  authority,  either  over  each  other  or  over  the  congrega- 
tion, this  being  a most  difficult  question,  the  right  solution  of 
which  evidently  lies  between  two  most  dangerous  extremes — 
insubordination  and  radicalism  on  one  hand,  and  ecclesiastical 
tyranny  and  heresy  on  the  other : of  the  two,  insubordination 
is  far  the  least  to  be  dreaded — for  this  reason,  that  nearly  all 
real  Christians  are  more  on  the  watch  against  their  pride  than 
their  indolence,  and  would  sooner  obey  their  clergyman,  if 
possible,  than  contend  with  him ; while  the  very  pride  they 
suppose  conquered  often  returns  masked,  and  causes  them  to 
make  a merit  of  their  humility  and  their  abstract  obedience, 
however  unreasonable:  but  they  cannot  so  easily  persuade 
themselves  there  is  a merit  in  abstract  c^'^5obedience. 

Ecclesiastical  tyranny  has,  for  the  most  part,  founded  itself 
on  the  idea  of  Vicarianism,  one  of  the  most  pestilent  of  the 
Romanist  theories,  and  most  plainly  denounced  in  Scripture. 
Of  this  I have  a word  or  two  to  say  to  the  modern  Vicarian.” 
All  powers  that  be  are  unquestionably  ordained  of  God ; so 
that  they  that  resist  the  Power,  resist  the  ordinance  of  God, 
Therefore,  say  some  in  these  offices.  We,  being  ordained  of 
God,  and  having  our  credentials,  and  being  in  the  English 
Bible  called  ambassadors  for  God,  do,  in  a sort,  represent  God. 
We  are  Vicars  of  Christ,  and  stand  on  earth  in  place  of 
Christ.  I have  heard  this  said  by  Protestant  clergymen. 

Now  the  word  ambassador  has  a peculiar  ambiguity  about 
It,  owing  to  its  use  in  modern  political  affairs ; and  these 
clergymen  assume  that  the  word,  as  used  by  St.  Paul,  means 
an  Ambassador  Plenipotentiary  ; representative  of  his  King, 
and  capable  of  acting  for  his  King.  What  right  have  they 
to  assume  that  St.  Paul  meant  this  ? St.  Paul  never  uses  the 
word  ambassador  at  all.  He  says  simply,  “We  are  in  emba& 


CONSTEUCTIOl^  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


3! 


sage  from  Christ;  and  Christ  beseeches  you  thrcugh  us.’- 
Most  true.  And  let  it  further  be  granted,  that  every  word 
that  the  clergyman  speaks  is  literally  dictated  to  him  by 
Christ ; that  he  can  make  no  mistake  in  delivering  his  mes- 
sage ; and  that,  therefore,  it  is  indeed  Christ  himself  who 
speaks  to  us  the  word  of  life  through  the  messenger’s  lips. 
Does,  therefore,  the  messenger  represent  Christ  ? Does  the 
channel  which  conveys  the  waters  of  the  Fountain  represent 
the  Fountain  itself?  Suppose,  when  we  went  to  draw  water 
at  a cistern,  that  all  at  once  the  Leaden  Spout  should  become 
animated,  and  open  its  mouth  and  say  to  us.  See,  I am  Vica- 
rious for  the  Fountain.  Whatever  respect  you  show  to  the 
Fountain,  show  some  part  of  it  to  me.  Should  we  not  answer 
the  Spout,  and  say.  Spout,  you  were  set  there  for  our  service, 
and  may  be  taken  away  and  thrown  aside*  if  anything  goes 
wrong  with  you.  But  the  Fountain  will  flow  for  ever. 

Observe,  I do  not  deny  a most  solemn  authority  vested  iu 
every  Christian  messenger  from  God  to  men.  I am  prepared 
to  grant  this  to  the  uttermost ; and  all  that  George  Herbert 
says,  in  the  end  of  the  Church-porch,  I would  enforce,  at 
another  time  than  this,  to  the  uttermost.  But  the  Authority 
is  simply  that  of  a King’s  messenger  / not  of  a King’s  Repre- 
sentative. There  is  a wide  diflerence ; all  the  difierence 
between  humble  service  and  blasphemous  usurpation. 

Well,  the  congregation  might  ask,  grant  him  a King’s 
messenger  in  cases  of  doctrine, — in  cases  of  discipline, 
an  officer  bearing  the  King’s  commission.  How  far  are 
we  to  obey  him  ? How  far  is  it  lawful  to  dispute  his  com- 
mands ? 

For,  in  granting,  above,  that  the  Messenger  always  gave 
his  message  faithfully,  I granted  too  much  to  my  adversaries, 
in  order  that  their  argument  might  have  all  the  weight  it 
possibly  could.  The  Messengers  rarely  deliver  their  message 

* “ By  just  judgment  be  deposed,”  Art  26. 


32 


NOTES  ON  THE 


faithfully ; and  sometimes  have  declared,  as  from  the  King^ 
messages  of  their  own  invention.  How  far  are  we,  knowing 
them  for  King’s  messengers,  to  believe  or  obey  them  ? 

Suppose  for  instance,  in  our  English  army,  on  the  eve  of 
some  great  battle,  one  of  the  colonels  were  to  give  this  order 
to  his  regiment.  “ My  men,  tie  your  belts  over  your  eyes, 
throw  down  your  muskets,  and  follow  me  as  steadily  as  you 
can,  through  this  marsh,  into  the  middle  of  the  enemy’s  line,” 
(this  being  precisely  the  order  issued  by  our  Puseyite  Church 
officers.)  It  might  be  questioned,  in  the  real  battle,  whether 
it  would  be  better  that  a regiment  should  show  an  example 
of  insubordination,  or  be  cut  to  pieces.  But  happily  in  the 
Church,  there  is  no  such  difficulty;  for  the  King  is  always 
with  his  army : Not  only  with  his  army,  but  at  the  right 
hand  of  every  soldier  of  it.  Therefore,  if  any  of  their  colonels 
give  them  a strange  command,  all  they  have  to  do  is  to  ask 
the  King ; and  never  yet  any  Christian  asked  guidance  of  his 
King,  in  any  difficulty  whatsoever,  without  mental  reservation 
or  secret  resolution,  but  he  had  it  forthwith.  We  conclude 
then,  finally,  that  the  authority  of  the  Clergy  is,  in  matters 
of  discipline,  large  (being  executive,  first,  of  the  written  laws 
of  God,  and  secondly,  of  those  determined  and  agreed  upon 
by  the  body  of  the  Church),  in  matters  of  doctrine,  depen- 
dent on  their  recommending  themselves  to  every  man’s  con- 
science, both  as  messengers  of  God,  and  as  themselves  men 
of  God,  perfect,  and  instructed  to  good  works.* 

* The  difference  between  the  authority  of  doctrine  and  discipline  is  beau- 
tifully marked  in  2 Timothy  ii.  25,  and  Titus  ii.  12 — 15.  In  the  first  passage, 
tiie  servant  of  God,  teaching  divine  doctrine,  must  not  strive,  but  must  “ ic 
meekness  instruct  those  that  oppose  themselves;”  in  the  second  passage, 
teaching  us  “ that  denying  ungodliness  and  worldly  lusts  he  is  to  live  sdberVg^ 
righteously^  and  godly  in  this  present  world^''  the  minister  is  to  speak,  exhort, 
and  rebuke  with  all  authority — both  functions  being  expressed  as  united 
in  2 Timothy  iv.  3. 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS.  3S 

6.  The  last  subject  which  we  had  to  investigate  was,  it  will 
be  remembered,  what  is  usually  called  the  connection  ol 
‘‘Church  and  State.”  But,  by  our  definition  of  the  term 
Church,  throughout  the  whole  of  Christendom,  the  Church 
(or  society  of  professing  Christians)  is  the  State,  and  our 
subject  is  therefore,  properly  speaking,  the  connection  of  the 
lay  and  clerical  ofiicers  of  the  Church;  that  is  to  say,  the 
degrees  in  which  the  civil  and  ecclesiastical  governments 
ought  to  interfere  with  or  influence  each  other. 

It  would  of  course  be  vain  to  attempt  a formal  inquiry 
into  this  intricate  subject ; — have  only  a few  detached  points 
to  notice  respecting  it. 

There  are  three  degrees  or  kinds  of  civil  government. 
The  first  and  lowest,  executive  merely ; the  government  in 
this  sense  being  simply  the  National  Hand,  and  composed  of 
individuals  who  administer  the  laws  of  the  nation,  and  execute 
its  established  purposes. 

The  second  kind  of  government  is  deliberative ; but  in  its 
deliberation,  representative  only  of  the  thoughts  and  will  of 
the  people  or  nation,  and  liable  to  be  deposed  the  instant  it 
ceases  to  express  those  thoughts  and  that  will.  This,  whatever 
its  form,  whether  centred  in  a king  or  in  any  number  of  men, 
is  properly  to  be  called  Democratic.  The  third  and  highest 
kind  of  government  is  deliberative,  not  as  representative  of 
the  people,  but  as  chosen  to  take  separate  counsel  for  them, 
and  having  power  committed  to  it,  to  enforce  upon  them 
whatever  resolution  it  may  adopt,  whether  consistent  with 
their  will  or  not.  This  government  is  properly  to  be  called 
Monarchical,  whatever  its  form. 

I see  that  politicians  and  writers  of  history  continually  run 
mto  hopeless  error,  because  they  confuse  the  Form  of  a 
government  with  its  Nature.  A government  may  be  nomi- 
nally vested  in  an  individual ; and  yet  if  that  individual  be  in 
such  fear  of  those  beneath  him,  that  he  does  nothing  but 

2* 


34 


NOTES  ON  THE 


what  he  supposes  will  be  agreeable  to  them,  the  Go\  eriiraeut 
is  Democratic ; on  the  other  hand,  the  Government  may  be 
vested  in  a deliberative  assembly  of  a thousand  men,  all 
having  equal  authority,  and  all  chosen  from  the  lowest  ranks 
of  the  people ; and  yet  if  that  assembly  act  independently  of 
the  will  of  the  people,  and  have  no  fear  of  them,  and  enforce 
its  determinations  upon  them,  the  government  is  Monarchical ; 
that  is  to  say,  the  Assembly,  acting  as  One,  has  power  over 
the  Many,  while  in  the  case  of  the  weak  king,  the  Many  have 
power  over  the  One. 

A Monarchical  Government,  acting  for  its  own  interests, 
instead  of  the  people’s,  is  a tyranny.  I said  the  Executive 
Government  was  the  hand  of  the  nation ; — the  Republican 
Government  is  in  like  manner  its  tongue.  The  Monarchical 
Government  is  its  head. 

All  true  and  right  Government  is  Monarchical,  and  of  the 
head.  What  is  its  best  form,  is  a totally  different  question  ; 
but  unless  it  act  for  the  people,  and  not  as  representative  of 
the  people,  it  is  no  government  at  all ; and  one  of  the  grossest 
blockheadisms  of  the  English  in  the  present  day,  is  their  idea 
of  sending  men  to  Parliament  to  represent  their  opinions.” 
Whereas  their  only  true  business  is  to  find  out  the  wisest 
men  among  them,  and  send  them  to  Parliament  to  represent 
their  own  opinions,  and  act  upon  them.  Of  all  puppet-shows 
in  the  Satanic  Carnival  of  the  earth,  the  most  contemptible 
puppet-show  is  a Parliament  with  a mob  pulling  the  strings. 

Now,  of  these  three  states  of  government,  it  is  clear  that 
the  merely  executive  can  have  no  proper  influence  over  eccle- 
siastical affairs.  But  of  the  other  two,  the  first,  being  the 
voice  of  the  people,  or  voice  of  the  Church,  must  have  such 
influence  over  the  Clergy  as  is  properly  vested  in  the  body 
of  the  Church.  The  second,  which  stands  in  the  same  rela- 
tion to  the  people  as  a father  does  to  his  family,  will  have  such 
farther  influence  over  ecclesiastical  matters,  as  a father  has 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLD8, 


35 


over  the  consciences  of  his  adult  children.  No  absolute 
authoiity,  therefore,  to  enforce  their  attendance  at  any  par- 
ticular place  of  worship,  or  subscription  to  any  particular 
Creed.  But  indisputable  authority  to  procure  for  them  such 
religious  instruction  as  he  deems  fittest,*  and  to  recommend 
it  to  them  by  every  means  in  his  power;  he  not  only  has 
authority,  but  is  under  obligation  to  do  this,  as  well  as  to 
establish  such  disciplines  and  forms  of  worship  in  his  house  as 
he  deems  most  convenient  for  his  family : With  which  they 
are  indeed  at  liberty  to  refuse  compliance,  if  such  disciplines 
appear  to  them  clearly  opposed  to  the  law  of  God ; but  not 

* Observe,  this  and  the  following  conclusions  depend  entirely  on  the  sup- 
position that  the  Government  is  part  of  the  Body  of  the  Church,  and  that 
some  pains  have  been  taken  to  compose  it  of  religious  and  wise  men.  If  we 
choose,  knowingly  and  deliberately,  to  compose  our  Parliament,  in  great  part, 
of  infidels  and  Papists,  gamblers  and  debtors,  we  may  well  regret  its  power 
over  the  Clerical  officer ; but  that  we  should,  at  any  time,  so  compose  our 
Parliament,  is  a sign  that  the  Clergy  themselves  have  failed  in  their  duty,  and 
the  Church  in  its  watchfulness; — ^thus  the  evil  accumulates  in  re-action. 
Whatever  I say  of  the  responsibility  or  authority  of  Government,  is  therefore 
to  be  understood  only  as  sequent  on  what  I have  said  previously  of  the 
necessity  of  closely  circumscribing  the  Church,  and  then  composing  the  Civil 
Government  out  of  the  circumscribed  Body.  Thus,  all  Papists  would  at  once 
be  rendered  incapable  of  share  in  it,  being  subjected  to  the  second  or  most 
severe  degree  of  excommunication — ^first,  as  idolaters,  by  1 Cor.  v.  10 ; then, 
as  covetous  and  extortioners,  (selling  absolution,)  by  the  same  text;  and, 
finally,  as  heretics  and  maintainers  of  falsehoods,  by  Titus  iii.  10,  and  1 Tim. 
iv.  1. 

I do  not  write  this  hastily,  nor  without  earnest  consideration  both  of 
difficulty  and  the  consequences  of  such  Church  Discipline.  But  either  the 
Bible  is  a superannuated  book,  and  is  only  to  be  read  as  a record  of  past 
days ; or  these  things  follow  from  it,  clearly  and  inevitably.  That  we  live  in 
days  when  the  Bible  has  become  impracticable,  is  (if  it  be  so)  the  very  thing 
I desire  to  be  considered.  I am  not  setting  down  these  plans  or  schemes  as 
at  present  possible.  I do  not  know  how  far  they  are  possible ; but  it  seema 
to  me  that  God  has  plainly  commanded  them,  and  that,  therefore,  their  im- 
practicability is  a thing  to  be  meditated  on. 


36 


NOTES  ON  THE 


without  most  solemn  conviction  of  their  being  so,  nor  without 
deep  sorrow  to  be  compelled  to  such  a course. 

But  it  may  be  said,  the  Government  of  a people  never  does 
stand  to  them  in  the  relation  of  a father  to  his  family.  If  it  dc 
not,  it  is  no  Government.  However  grossly  it  may  fail  in  its 
duty,  and  however  little  it  may  be  fitted  for  its  place,  if  it  be 
a Government  at  all,  it  has  paternal  office  and  relation  to  the 
people.  I find  it  written  on  the  one  hand, — “Honor  thy 
Father on  the  other, — “ Honor  the  King on  the  one  hand, 
— “ Whoso  smiteth  his  Father,  shall  be  put  to  death  on 
the  other, — “They  that  resist  shall  receive  to  themselves 
damnation.”  Well,  but,  it  maybe  farther  argued,  the  Clergy 
are  in  a still  more  solemn  sense  the  Fathers  of  the  People,  and 
the  People  are  the  beloved  Sons ; why  should  not,  therefore, 
the  Clergy  have  the  power  to  govern  the  civil  officers  ? 

For  two  very  clear  reasons. 

In  all  human  institutions  certain  evils  are  granted,  as  of 
necessity ; and,  in  organizing  such  institutions,  we  must  allow 
for  the  consequences  of  such  evils,  and  make  arrangements 
such  as  may  best  keep  them  in  check.  Now,  in  both  the 
civil  and  ecclesiastical  governments  there  will  of  necessity  be 
a certain  number  of  bad  men.  The  wicked  civilian  has  com- 
paratively little  interest  in  overthrowing  ecclesiastical  autho- 
rity ; it  is  often  a useful  help  to  him,  and  presents  in  itself 
little  which  seems  covetable.  But  the  wicked  ecclesiastical 
officer  has  much  interest  in  overthrowing  the  civilian,  and 
getting  the  political  power  into  his  own  hands.  As  far  as 
wicked  men  are  concerned,  therefore,  it  is  better  that  the 
State  should  have  power  over  the  Clergy,  than  the  Clergy 
over  the  State. 

Secondly,  supposing  both  the  Civil  and  Ecclesiastical  officer 
to  be  Christians  ; there  is  no  fear  that  the  civil  officer  should 


* Exod.  XXL  15. 


CONSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


87 


under-rate  the  dignity  or  shorten  the  serviceableiiesB  ot  the 
minister ; but  there  is  considerable  danger  that  the  religious 
enthusiasm  of  the  minister  might  diminish  the  serviceableness 
of  the  civilian.  (The  History  of  Religious  Enthusiasm  should 
be  written  by  some  one  who  had  a life  to  give  to  its  investi- 
gation; it  is  one  of  the  most  melancholy  page®  in  human 
records,  and  one  the  most  necessary  to  be  studied.)  There- 
fore, so  far  as  good  men  are  concerned,  it  is  better  the  State 
should  have  power  over  the  Clergy,  than  the  Clergy  over  the 
State. 

This  we  might,  it  seems  to  me,  conclude  by  unassisted  rea- 
son. But  surely  the  whole  question  is,  without  any  need  of 
human  reason,  decided  by  the  history  of  Israel.  If  ever  a 
body  of  Clergy  should  have  received  independent  authority, 
the  Levitical  Priesthood  should ; for  they  were  indeed  a 
Priesthood,  and  more  holy  than  the  rest  of  the  nation.  But 
Aaron  is  always  subject  to  Moses.  All  solemn  revelation  is 
made  to  Moses,  the  civil  magistrate,  and  he  actually  com- 
mands Aaron  as  to  the  fulfilment  of  his  priestly  office,  and 
that  in  a necessity  of  life  and  death  : “ Go  and  make  an  atone- 
ment for  the  people.”  ISTor  is  anything  more  remarkable 
throughout  the  whole  of  the  Jewish  history  than  the  perfect 
subjection  of  the  Priestly  to  the  Kingly  Authority.  Thus 
Solomon  thrusts  out  Abiathar  from  being  priest,  1 Kings  ii. 
27 ; and  Jehoahaz  administers  th^  funds  of  the  Lord’s  House, 
2 Kings  xii.  4,  though  that  money  was  actually  the  Atone- 
ment Money,  the  Ransom  for  Souls  (Exod.  xxx.  12). 

We  have,  however,  also  the  beautiful  instance  of  Samuel 
aniting  in  himself  the  offices  of  Priest,  Prophet,  and  Judge; 
nor  do  I insist  on  any  special  manner  of  subjection  of  Clergy 
to  civil  officers,  or  vice  versa ; but  only  on  the  necessity  of 
their  perfect  unity  and  influence  upon  each  other  in  every 
Christian  Kingdom.  Those  who  endeavor  to  effect  the  utter 
separation  of  ecclesiastical  and  civil  officers,  are  striving,  on 


38 


NOTES  ON  THE 


the  one  hand,  to  expose  the  Clergy  to  the  most  grievous  and 
most  subtle  of  temptations  from  their  own  spiritual  enthusiasm 
and  spiritual  pride ; on  the  other,  to  deprive  the  civil  officer 
of  all  sense  of  religious  responsibility,  and  to  introduce  the 
fearful,  godless,  conscienceless,  and  soulless  policy  of  the  Radi 
cal  and  the  (so  called)  Socialist.  Whereas,  the  ideal  of  all 
government  is  the  perfect  unity  of  the  two  bodies  of  otficers, 
each  supporting  and  correcting  the  other ; the  Clergy  having 
due  weight  in  all  the  national  councils ; the  civil  officers  hav- 
ing a solemn  reverence  for  God  in  all  their  acts ; the  Clergy 
hallowing  all  worldly  policy  by  their  influence;  and  the  magis- 
tracy repressing  all  religious  enthusiasm  by  their  practical 
wisdom.  To  separate  the  two  is  to  endeavor  to  separate  the 
daily  life  of  the  nation  from  God,  and  to  map  out  the  domi- 
nion of  the  soul  into  two  provinces — one  of  Atheism,  the  other 
of  Enthusiasm.  These,  then,  were  the  reasons  which  caused 
me  to  speak  of  the  idea  of  separation  of  Church  and  State  as 
Fatuity ; for  what  Fatuity  can  be  so  great  as  the  not  having 
God  in  our  thoughts ; and,  in  any  act  or  office  of  life,  saying 
in  our  hearts,  “ There  is  no  God.” 

Much  more  I would  fain  say  of  these  things,  but  not  now : 
this  only,  I must  emphatically  assert,  in  conclusion: — That 
the  schism  between  the  so  called  Evangelical  and  High  Church 
parties  in  Britain,  is  enough  to  shake  many  men’s  faith  in  the 
truth  or  existence  of  Religion  at  all.  It  seems  to  me  one  of 
the  most  disgraceful  scenes  in  Ecclesiastical  history,  that  Pro- 
testantism should  be  paralyzed  at  its  very  heart  by  jealousies, 
based  on  little  else  than  mere  difierence  between  high  and 
low  breeding.  For  the  essential  difierences,  in  the  religious 
opinions  of  the  two  parties,  are  sufficiently  marked  in  two  men 
whom  we  may  take  as  the  highest  representatives  of  each — 
George  Herbert  and  John  Milton;  and  I do  not  think  there 
would  have  been  much  difficulty  in  atoning  those  two,  if  one 
could  have  got  them  together.  But  the  real  difficulty,  nowa- 


COKSTRUCTION  OF  SHEEPFOLDS. 


39 


days,  lies  in  the  sin  and  folly  of  both  parties : in  the  snpercili* 
ousness  of  the  one,  and  the  rudeness  of  the  other.  Evidently, 
however,  the  sin  lies  most  at  the  High  Church  door,  for  the 
Evangelicals  are  mach  more  ready  to  act  with  Churchmen 
than  they  with  the  Evangelicals ; and  I believe  that  this  state 
of  things  cannot  continue  much  longer;  and  that  if  the  Church 
of  England  does  not  forthwith  unite  with  herself  the  entire 
Evangelical  body,  both  of  England  and  Scotland,  and  take  her 
stand  with  them  against  the  Papacy,  her  hour  has  struck. 
She  cannot  any  longer  serve  two  masters ; nor  make  curtsies 
alternately  to  Christ  and  anti-Christ.  That  she  has  done  this 
is  visible  enough  by  the  state  of  Europe  at  this  instant. 
Three  centuries  since  Luther — three  hundred  years  of  Pro- 
testant knowledge— and  the  Papacy  not  yet  overthrown! 
Christ'S  truth  still  restrained,  in  narrow  dawn,  to  the  white 
cliffs  of  England  and  white  crests  of  the  Alps ; — the  morning 
star  paused  in  its  course  in  heaven  ; — the  sun  and  moon  stayed, 
with  Satan  for  their  Joshua. 

But  how  to  unite  the  two  great  sects  of  paralyzed  Protes- 
tants? By  keeping  simply  to  Scripture.  The  members  of  the 
Scottish  Church  have  not  a shadow  of  excuse  for  refusing 
Episcopacy ; it  has  indeed  been  abused  among  them ; grie- 
vously abused ; but  it  is  in  the  Bible ; and  that  is  all  they  have 
a right  to  ask. 

They  have  also  no  shadow  of  excuse  for  refusing  to  employ 
a written  form  of  prayer.  It  may  not  be  to  their  taste — it 
may  not  be  the  way  in  which  they  like  to  pray ; but  it  is  no 
(juestion,  at  present,  of  likes  or  dislikes,  but  of  duties ; and 
the  acceptance  of  such  a form  on  their  part  would  go  half 
way  to  reconcile  them  with  their  brethren.  Let  them  allege 
such  objections  as  they  can  reasonably  advance  against  the 
English  form,  and  let  these  be  carefully  and  humbly  weighed 
by  the  pastors  of  both  churches : some  of  them  ought  to  be 
at  once  forestalled.  For  the  English  Church,  on  the  othei 


40 


NOTES  ON  THE 


hand,  must  cut  the  term  Priest  entirely  out  of  her  Prayer- 
book,  and  substitute  for  it  that  of  Minister  or  Elder;  the 
passages  respecting  absolution  must  be  thrown  out  also,  ex- 
cept the  doubtful  one  in  the  Morning  Service,  in  which  there 
is  no  harm  ; and  then  there  would  be  only  the  Baptismal 
question  left,  which  is  one  of  words  rather  than  of  things, 
and  might  easily  be  settled  in  Synod,  turning  the  refractory 
Clergy  out  of  their  offices,  to  go  to  Rome  if  they  chose. 
Then,  when  the  Articles  of  Faith  and  form  of  worship  had 
been  agreed  upon  between  the  English  and  Scottish  Churches, 
the  written  forms  and  articles  should  be  carefully  translated 
into  the  European  languages,  and  offered  to  the  acceptance 
of  the  Protestant  churches  on  the  Continent,  with  earnest 
entreaty  that  they  would  receive  them,  and  due  entertainment 
of  all  such  objections  as  they  could  reasonably  allege ; and 
thus  the  whole  body  of  Protestants,  united  in  one  great  Fold, 
would  indeed  go  in  and  out,  and  find  pasture ; and  the  work 
appointed  for  them  would  be  done  quickly,  and  Antichrist 
overthrown. 

Impossible : a thousand  times  impossible  ! — I hear  it  ex- 
claimed against  me.  No — not  impossible.  Christ  does  not 
order  impossibilities,  and  He  has  ordered  us  to  be  at  peace, 
one  with  another.  Nay,  it  is  answered — He  came  not  to  send 
peace,  but  a sword.  Yes,  verily : to  send  a sword  upon  earth, 
but  not  within  His  Church;  for  to  His  Church  He  said, 
u My  Peace  I leave  with  you.” 


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Painters” 18mo,  $1.00  $2.00 

True  and  Beautiful  in  Nature,  Art,  Etc.  2 vols.  2.00  4.00 

Precious  Thoughts  — Moral  and  Religious 1.00  2.00 

Pearls  for  Young  Ladies 1.00  2.00 


Ruskin’s  Autobiography : Pr^terita.  3 vols..l8mo,  $3.00  $6.00 
Also  in  Extra  Cloth,  Gilt,  and  in  neat  Boxes,  very  suitable  for  Presents. 


Ru-skin’s  Beauties. 


The  True  and  Beautiful  2 vols ) 4 vols.  in  box,  extra 

Precious  Thoughts > cloth,  $4.00 ; half 

Pearls  for  Young  Ladies  3 calf,  $8.00. 


Ruskin’s  Popular  Volumes. 


Crown  of  Wild  Olive 

Sesame  and  Lilies 

Queen  of  the  Air 

Ethics  of  the  Dust  . . 


4 vols.  in  box, 
cloth,  $4.00 ; 
calf,  $8.00. 


extra 

half 


Ruskin  on  Architecture. 


Poetry  of  Architecture l 4 vols.  in  box,  extra 

Seven  Lamps  OF  Architecture f cloth,  $4.00.  With 

Lectures  on  Architecture  and  Painting.  . f plates — cloth,  $5.00j 
Stones  of  Venice  (Selections) ) hah  calf,  $9.00o 


a 


HOLIDAY  BINDING 

of  the  Beautiful  i8mo  Edition. 


The  following  are  hound  with  white  vellum  cloth  hacks,  embel- 
lished with  a beautiful  gold  vine  and  forget-me-nots,  Lansdowne  sUk 
sides.  The  daintiest  conception  of  the  year.  Each  $1.50. 

Sesame  and  Lilies. 

Ethics  of  the  Dust. 

Crown  op  Wild  Olive. 

Queen  op  the  Air. 

Seven  Lamps  op  Architecture.  With  14  fuU-page  plates. 
Letters  on  Architecture.  With  15  full-page  plates. 
Stones  op  Venice.  (Selections.) 

Val  d’Arno.  With  13  full-page  plates. 

Poetry  op  Architecture. 

Elements  of  Drawing. 

Frondes  Agrestes.  (Readings  from  Modern  Painters.) 
True  and  Beautiful  in  Nature,  Art,  Etc.  2 vols. 
Precious  Thoughts  (Moral  and  Religious). 

Pearls  for  Young  Ladies. 

Pr^terita.  3 vols. 

In  ordering  or  asking  for  the  above  call  for  the  Forget-me-not  Edition. 


Railway  Problem.  By  A.  B.  Stickney.  Numerous  illustra- 
tive diagrams,  some  in  colors.  12mo,  cloth $2.00 

Half  leather 2.50 

Paper  edition,  without  diagrams 50 

Story  of  an  Emigrant.  By  Hon.  Hans  Mattson.  8vo 2.00 

Tales  of  a Garrison  Town.  Eaton  & Betts.  Illustrated. 

12mo,  cloth 1.25 

Paper 50 

Ethical  Science.  By  Hon.  John  Ogden.  12mo,  net 1.00 

Our  Children  OF  THE  Slums.  By  Annie  B.  King.  Illustrated,  .50 

At  His  Feet.  By  Rev.  Wayland  Hoyt,  D.  D 1.00 

Perfume  Holder.  A Persian  Love  Poem.  By  Craven  Lang- 

stroth  Betts 1.25 

Butterfly  Flights.  By  Mrs.  Robbins.  6 vols 3.60 

Dare  to  Do  Right.  By  Julia  A.  Matthews.  5 vols.  Illustrated,  5.00 
Drayton  Hall  Series.  By  Julia  A.  Matthews.  5 vols.  Ulus.  4.50 

Easy  Science  Series.  By  Agnes  Giberne.  5 vols.  Ulus 7.50 

Vinegar  Hill  Stories.  By  Anna  B.  Warner.  6 vols.  bound 

in  3 3.00 

Win  and  Wear  Series.  By  Mrs.  Robbins.  6 vols.  Illustrated,  7.50 


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